


Boosh de Noël

by Terrantalen



Series: Boosh Fics [2]
Category: Gremlins (Movies), The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Badass Vince, Begging, Bickering as Therapy, Christmas Related Angst, Christmas fic, Comedy Horror, Damsel Howard, Delayed Orgasm, Deus Ex Machina, Dirty Talk, Domesticity, Don't Feed Them After Midnight, Don't Get Them Wet, Fairy Light Addiction, First Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gremlins Canon-Typical Violence, Howard Hates Christmas, Howard is a Thirsty Bitch, Idiots in Love, Inexpert Crimping, Jazz Gremlin!, Like they don't know what they're doing, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Safe Fun, Vince Loves Oral Sex (and Christmas), but they're definitely together, established relationship (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 94,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: The Gremlins/Mighty Boosh crossover fic that no one asked for but I wrote anyway!Basically, Howard and Vince dealing with emotions, plus slash, plus Gremlins, plus a lil' bit of Christmas magic, and a crappy pun for a title.I haven't got an excuse.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Series: Boosh Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565512
Comments: 42
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

There are certain things about Vince Noir that no one knows. Not that there’s a lot of them, really; Vince isn’t prone to keeping secrets. It’s a bit difficult to keep secrets straight when you have so many friends and what is secret from one group of friends is necessary to tell another group of friends just to be friends with them and then you might be out with the first group of friends when the second group of friends just shows up with a third group of friends and suddenly, you can’t remember who knows what or can’t know what or who wants which thing from you. 

It's simpler to be honest, if you can, but you can’t always be honest. Or honest to everyone. Or, honestly is sort of relative. 

Things can be true, even if the opposite things might be true too. Or sometimes you feel like something is true, but later something else might be true- _er_ , and so both things are right, yeah? But neither one is completely, factually, correct.

Just explaining it is complicated. 

What’s important is, he’s not a liar. It’s just that Vince can be of two minds about a lot of things. He sees the flip side of a lot of coins. So, yeah, honesty is the best policy (or whatever) but _which_ honesty Vince picks at any given moment can be a little fluid. What’s the point of being honest anyway, if all it does is upset a carefully curated image it’s taken over a decade to establish?

Case in point: he knows that it’s December 22nd. He knows that, when he asks Howard to put on the radio, all they’re going to get is Christmas music. He’s aware that they could just put on a tape, or a record, or a CD, or whatever, but he still asks for the radio anyway. And then he complains. A blue streak of complaints. One after next.

Times them right, though.

If he didn’t complain, he might start giving Howard _ideas_ , and Howard knows Vince better than anyone, knows (almost) everything there is to know, but he doesn’t know _this_. No one does.

“Ugh,” Vince groans, “This song? Again?”

Howard’s eyes look up from the catalog ( _Just Cardigans_ ) he’s been perusing for the past hour. They flick toward the radio, “Bing Crosby,” he says softly. 

Carefully timed, that’s the key. It’s part of the plan. Jazz solidarity is what it is. Even off-brand Christmas jazz falls under the umbrella of Howard Moon’s dedication. Complain about Wham’s _Last Christmas_ , Paul McCartney doing _Wonderful Christmastime_ (which is properly awful) and off it goes; complain about Bing Crosby singing _White Christmas_ and on it stays.

“Change it,” Vince begs, pulling a face like he’s getting a headache.

Howard raises his eyebrow at him, “No,” he says. He looks back at the catalog, flips a page. 

Vince sighs defeatedly, though he is anything but. He has successfully camouflaged himself yet again. 

He turns around and goes back to arranging jumpers. He spends all year going to jumble sales, picking them up. It’s a bit of a hobby, finding the perfect ugly Christmas jumper in someone’s front garden on a Sunday afternoon. On December 1st, every year, he takes them out and puts them in the shop. 

Howard always eyes them distastefully, and Vince says that the assault on fashion bothers him too (it probably should do), but trendy parties are trendy parties, and they sell a fair number of the jumpers before the holiday, so what’s to be done? Got to make money, don’t they?

Of course they do. So, if Vince is diligent about it, it’s, you know, justified, or whatever.

He puts the ice-skating penguins in front of the dancing snowmen, shuffles a shimmering silver snowflake jumper behind that, then tucks the weird, melting Father Christmas jumper behind all three. It’s a Nabootique veteran. It’s been out for the past three Christmases with no one snapping it up. He prays that it stays that way. He loves that ugly Father Christmas best of all. Even if he would never wear it himself, it doesn’t stop him from looking at it and thinking that it’s genius. 

He has an idea that whoever knitted it, knitted it for someone they loved, that whoever received it, did so with a smile, and that they wore it, dutifully, every year… Though, its presence in the shop argues otherwise, or suggests a much sadder end to his imagined tale than he wants to think about, but maybe it made it into the jumble sale pile by accident and, someday, its rightful owner will come into the shop, find it, and cry tears of joy to be reunited with it. 

It is possible.

Vince gives the jumpers a last, lingering caress, before he turns to survey the rest of the shop. 

It’s been a quiet day so far, so almost everything is still in good order, but that doesn’t stop him from tweaking the ceramic Christmas tree that sits above the piano, from putting a little nest of angel hair in the birdcage and lining the bottom with some silver garland, from adjusting the rope of fairy lights that line the shop windows, or from thinking (wistfully) of the Christmas Village that’s still sitting up in the attic.

It’s tucked up behind another whole box of fairy lights. The bad lights, the dangerous lights. They’re vintage; old, large-lamped and rainbow colored, faded from years of sunlight bleaching them. They probably should have burned out long ago, but they haven’t. They’re Vince’s favorite lights. 

Howard has lectured him every year about the fire hazard they represent, about frayed wires, about electrocution, about a lot of things.

So, Vince has left them down this year. As a peace offering. As a concession. As a sort of wink to… something.

Howard hasn’t commented on their absence. He probably thinks he’s successfully hidden them and doesn’t want to jinx himself by mentioning them and sending Vince on a hunt. Little does he realize that hiding fairy lights from Vince is like hiding bacon from a dog (on the floor) (in plain sight). Can’t be done.

Howard never mentions a word about any of the Christmas decorations. He just gives them the evil eye, a grimace, then then pretends they’re not there. He’s not like Vince, who harbors a secret passion. 

He actually, properly hates Christmas. Always has, ever since they met. Imagine a ten-year-old hating Christmas. It’s unnatural, but that was Howard. Kitted out in his olive-green parka, hands folded into pockets, standing in the icy schoolyard and whinging about Christmas break like he was a prepubescent Ebenezer Scrooge.

Vince used to ask him why. Stopped, though, when it became clear all he was ever going to get was a snippy _I just do!_ and a ten-minute dissertation on seasonal depression, improperly watered trees bursting into flames, and false charities setting up to take advantage of _holiday spirit_. 

So, there it is. 

Howard hates Christmas and Vince…

Vince loves Christmas.

See, there is a right answer (if ever asked) what your favorite holiday is if you’re an electro-punk-goth-mod. The right answer is Halloween. You can _never_ admit that it might be anything else. 

Vince does like Halloween. It’s genius. Sweets, costumes, themed parties, gallons of fake blood, makeup, weird ghost stories; all of it is brilliant. When you’re the Shoreditch Vampire, Halloween is part of the gig.

But, in his heart of hearts, on the other side of the coin, (on the weighted face that always lands up) Christmas is his favorite holiday.

He has never actually told anyone that. Least, not since he was eight and Christmas was the proper favorite holiday of every cool person he knew (they were also eight, so makes sense). It’s one of his only actual _secrets_. 

It’s at least seventy percent about the lights, which might be a bit evident looking around the shop.

He’s got so many strands plugged in that Howard is in a constant fret about the electrical. He’s always giving the outlets a worried glance. Persistently asks just how many strands in a row Vince has plugged in. Vince’s maths on the exact numbers, as benefits a fairy-light addict, are fuzzy at best. It’s not like he counts, anyway. He just keeps going until it looks right.

The shop almost looks right. Except for the large, empty patch of wall near the stairs. The patch where the old lights normally go and have not gone this year. Vince scratches the center of his palm with his index finger and tries to ignore the gap. He reminds himself that it’s for Howard.

Which means something this year. 

The song stops. The DJ comes on. He’s taking requests. Vince leans against the barber chair and listens while the DJ talks to someone about their Nan, about holiday traditions, and then asks the caller what she wants to hear. 

“ _Zat You, Santa Claus?_ ” the caller enthuses. “Always my Nan’s favorite!”

Howard clears his throat behind the counter. He shifts a little. He tenses, goes a bit aquiver. 

Some Christmas songs are merely tolerable, some songs, though… Howard _might_ actually like.

There are three rapid knocks, Louis Armstrong pops his titular question. Vince holds his breath (just a little) as the brass instruments march through the introduction. He listens closely. Louis Armstrong sings about preparing gifts, gets as far as there ain’t being the slightest spark out, and then he hears it. It’s soft at first, barely a whisper, that grows into a mumble, that turns into something smooth and warm. Howard’s baritone layers like silk under the scratchy wool of Louis Armstrong’s worn, old (Christmas) jumper voice.

_Are you bringing a present for me  
Something pleasantly pleasant for me?  
Then it's just what I've been waiting for  
Would you mind slipping it under the door?_

Vince wants to slip something under Howard’s door alright. His teeth catch his lip. He imagines going around the other side of the counter, falling to his knees, and seeing who can finish faster, Howard (in Vince’s mouth) or Louis. He has to remind himself about standards, about not sucking people off behind shop counters while _jazz_ plays in the background, no matter how much you might be tempted.

Howard glances up, catches Vince looking at him. 

There was a time when Howard might have not noticed what was happening, a time when he might have given Vince an annoyed _what are you looking at?_ and Vince might have said _nothing_ and then they’d have had a tiff, but that time has more or less passed. When Vince gives Howard the eye now, Howard isn’t oblivious anymore. 

Even when Vince would rather he was. Like right now. Doesn’t do to get turned on by Howard duetting with Louis Armstrong during a song Vince can’t even admit that he himself (maybe just a little) likes.

Howard smiles at Vince (and it’s got meaning) (the jig is up) (shit). He waggles his eyebrows.

“What are you doing with your face?” Vince deflects _I’m too cool for you to seduce with a bit of song and a look._ Of course he is (but his lips feel dry and he licks them).

Howard watches the retreat of Vince’s tongue. He grins (wolfishly) (who taught him that?) (probably Vince). He stands up straight, “Putting my moves on you, little man.”

And just like that, Howard’s called his bluff. _You? You aren’t too cool for anything. I’ll come at you like a hailstone, like a chill breeze, like a magically animated snowman, and you..._

 _Yeah, yeah, alright._

Vince will. But there’s going to be a dance first.

Vince lets his posture slip, his hand comes to rest on his hip, his weight rocks onto one leg. He knows how he looks. He’s practiced this stance in his mirror before. “Alright, well, stop it, yeah?” Vince nods at the door, “Shop’s open, isn’t it?” he says (as though he actually cares).

Howard _knows_ that the objection is as hollow as a cheap, waxy chocolate Father Christmas. He leans forward on his elbows, folds his hands together on top of the counter, “That a problem?” he asks. He sounds confident (un-Howardlike) because he’s reading out his lines like he’s supposed to (they’ve played in this show before). His eyes are boring into Vince, _dirty bitch_ they say.

Howard Moon has the best fuck-me eyes that Vince has ever seen. They spend so much of their time looking tense, or panicky, or even insane, but when they don't, when they just settle down and give Vince the old _hello_ , they really get down to business.

Vince’s breath starts coming a little quicker. He’s about to admit defeat.

The scene in the shop goes on pause.

The music winds down like a dying calliope (Louis Armstrong says _re-_ , the 'e' just starting to be shaped by the 'p' in _reply_ ). Howard is leering at Vince; he leans over the shop counter, his lips are locked somewhere between a smile and a pout, his (tiny) eyes are sparkling. Vince is biting his lower lip (reflexively), his whole body is a smooth, inviting s-curve, his eyes are turning dusky. Vince’s cock is stiffening like it’s got the chokes. He doesn’t know it (he suspects it), but Howard’s (behind the counter) is doing the same.

It is a perfect tableau of two people who are about to bum one another silly.

So, a quick word about truths and coins and secrets and whatnot.

Technically, _this_ is a secret too. Him and Howard. He never meant to keep it a secret. It just sort of happened that way.

See, the first time it happened, no one was around, and it was… well, it seemed like a lot to just announce to Naboo and Bollo when they got back to the flat, so Vince didn’t, and, to be fair, he hadn’t been absolutely _sure_ that it would happen again. It did, though. And again. And then again after that. 

Then, before he knew it, a month had passed with him and Howard having furtive shags every time Naboo and Bollo were out. 

Then, it was two months, then three, then four… and now… six. Six months since they started, and a long time since waiting to be completely alone was good enough.

Every month that’s passed, it seemed a little more absurd. A little more like someone should really have figured something out. No one has.

Not Naboo or Bollo, not Leroy, or Lester Corncrake, or even Bob Fossil. With every month that’s passed with no one noticing, and with him not saying anything, it’s just seemed like a momentous buildup. Feels like, if he were to say something now, it would be the sort of announcement that gets made by a CEO on a stage at a trade conference, with dancers, streamers, and pyrotechnics. 

Anyway, what would he even say?

 _Howard and I are bumming! Surprise!_

That’s what it is. 

All it is. Or… 

It’s just, he doesn’t expect it to be more. He hasn’t got any experience with _more_ , anyway. He’s got plenty of experience with bumming, with fucking, with hand-jobs, and blow-jobs, and any other form of bunking-up you can imagine. He knows those things. He gets them. What they’re good for (which is a lot) and what they’re not.

He’s not about to make a mistake, at least. To think those things necessarily mean anything beyond what they mean innately.

They _could_ , though. And if they did...

He’s just happy that they’re happening. It’s enough that arguments can end in new, entirely more fruitful ways than they used to, that Howard takes him up on the offer of what he’s got to give, and that (whatever else) it doesn’t seem like either of them want it to stop.

It’s lasted this long, at least. Why rock the boat with some sort of… expectation. That’s what they’re avoiding. Expectations. 

It’s not like Howard has said anything either. It’s not like he’s itching to have other people made aware. They have mutually and silently agreed that (whatever it is) this is just between them. Which is fine. Vince doesn’t need more than what it is. He’s not even sure what more than what it is could possibly be. It already feels like a lot. Sex, a best friend, a flatmate, and a workmate; how much more is there?

So, he keeps quiet about it. Doesn’t let anything slip. And if that means that Vince has to check himself from brushing crumbs out of Howard’s moustache, or slipping his arm around him when they’re both on the sofa, or giving him a peck on the cheek when they say their goodnights if Naboo and Bollo are around, well… it’s a trade.

He does wonder, though, what would happen if an announcement weren’t necessarily made, but they were perhaps _found out_.

Thing is, it’s fun to have secret sex with someone. There are rules to it. You can’t do these things, you have to do these other things. As a rule, Vince hates rules. The rules, though, are necessary. What he likes is breaking rules. Taking chances. Playing it as close as he can get. Skirting along the fringe, just on the right side of safe, just at the corner of getting caught.

Here is something that is not secret in the least. Vince is a kinky bitch. He gets off thinking about getting watched. He gets off thinking about getting caught with Howard. So, when he thinks about getting found out, it’s at least half a sexual fantasy. That his mind likes to play through what would happen _after_ is just some pre-planning. It’s more or less inevitable that they will be caught out.

He doesn’t know how he wants it to happen most. 

In the stock room? He and Howard have made use of it more than once. Naboo could come into the shop and wonder why no one is minding the counter and discover them. Upstairs on the sofa? Any time they’re alone in the flat (all it takes is ten spare minutes) they go at it like jackrabbits on ecstasy (Howard is a proper tart when given the opportunity) (goes without saying that Vince is too). Bollo might come in early from a gig, maybe Lester would show up for a forgotten jazz night, and there they’d be, half dressed and very clearly not just having a curry and a chat. 

Or Vince could do a creeper into Howard’s room, surprise him in the middle of the night. The bumping headboard would be like an gong announcing Howard was having sex, and if Howard was known to have had sex, there would be questions, and if there were questions, no one would even have to actually see them to figure out what exactly was going on. It’s obvious once you start stacking up the Jenga tower of evidence.

They will be found out, somehow. And then...(?)

Vince doesn’t really know. 

He thinks, though, that maybe it would just... keep going. It’d be different, sure, because people would know he was with someone, that he wasn’t just newly incapable of finding a girl or a bloke who he fancied enough to take up on the offer of an evening’s company when he’s out at clubs. 

All the roses who’ve fallen away from the Camden party scene and into proper relationships would probably hear about it and start inviting him and Howard for wine and cheese nights, all those dreadful, boring parties where no one dances and people discuss mortgages and zoning laws, and barely have a word to say about pop stars, or fashion, or anything actually interesting. 

He doesn’t want any part of _that_ , so it’s probably wise to avoid the whole mess by keeping things quiet.

But...

To be able to hold Howard’s hand, to be able to go out with him on actual dates, to be able to wake up with him every morning in the same bed, might make all the rest worth it.

If that’s what Howard wants, anyway.

Vince _thinks_ he might. 

He isn’t quite ready to come out and ask him (he’s not dragging his feet, he’s enjoying the moment) (even if the moment is starting to get a little _stretched_ ); he’ll get round to it _eventually_. 

Or, he won’t have to. If they get found out, well, there it will be. Sink or swim, fly or die. Whatever. Nobody asks anyone anything. They’ll be on the same side, shamefaced and a maybe little guilty at getting caught (literally) with their trousers down, sure, but it won’t be _having a conversation_ ; it’ll be, _well, that’s happened_ and now what? In it together, like that.

Put it that way, and Vince is eager to toss the coin up in the air, to watch it spin and flash, catch it out of the air, flip his palm over, tear his hand away, and _know_ , one way… or another. 

The scene in the shop unpauses. _\--eply_ says Louis Armstrong, the music winds back up like a hand cranked barrel organ. Vince’s lips curl into a filthy smile. Howard’s eyes are drilling into him. Vince looks toward the storage cupboard and says (all false innocence and virginal delicacy) (he sounds as breathy as a sheer negligee), “Someone could catch us, Howard.”

( _Please_ )

They share a look of conspiratorial lust.

Vince sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and grins. Howard doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t bother with the pretense of locking up the shop. He simply walks from behind the counter toward the stock room. Vince saunters just behind him, already thinking about what will happen the instant the door clicks shut. 

He’ll grab Howard and spin him backward, slam him into the door. Howard will moan because he likes a little rough treatment now and again. Hopefully, he’ll do it nice and loud. A proper wail like a tea kettle on the boil (fuck being quiet) before Vince’ll go up on his tip toes and snog Howard like he’s the sole source of oxygen in a rapidly decompressing spaceship. 

He’ll have his hands up Howard’s shirt before Howard can blink. His fingers will find Howard’s nipple (the left; it seems slightly more sensitive) and he’ll give it a good roll between his thumb and pointer finger. That should get some more noise going, quick smart. Howard is a keener when Vince goes demanding. 

Whatever Howard does works on Vince, but Howard all passive and willing and just letting Vince do as he likes while he sings him a song about how good he’s doing it… Yeah.

Vince is so ready for it, that he almost thinks he hallucinates the ding he hears. It sounds almost like the chirp of a microwave that’s finished doing popcorn, but then he realizes that it’s the damn bell above the door.

 _Give us a minute_ , Vince wants to whine, because (again) he wasn’t planning to be quiet; whoever it is might have wondered what was going on and possibly checked and they’d have been found out ( _finally_ ), but no. The dick has to come in before the action starts, when there is very definitely nothing to hear, nothing to investigate, and nothing to find out.

It’s enough to make Vince scream. 

He doesn’t, though. He just turns to see who it is.

It’s an old man, dressed in a long blue robe, gems glinting across the surface of the satiny fabric like individual snowflakes caught in the sun. He’s got white hair that flows down his shoulders and across his chest (like Leon Russel). He’s fucking resplendent and (in spite of his shitty timing) Vince is ready to like him on sight, but then he notices a few more things about him.

He’s holding a wooden box. The box is ornately carved with slightly disturbing pictograms (creatures with pointy teeth consume naked people, spike filled pits wait in ambush for other people who are being carelessly pitched into their depths, hollow-eyed children are poking still more people with sticks; the whole thing is _grim_ ) and topped with a shining black handle. The old man’s right hand is gnarled, claw-like and curled around the handle. The long fingernails of his left hand peek out from underneath the bottom of the box like a jagged row of shark’s teeth.

His eyes are framed by round rimmed glasses which would normally make him look bookish, maybe even kindly, except that the eyes behind them are the most unholy shade of pure black Vince has ever seen.

He instinctively takes a step away from the old man and backs into Howard. His burgeoning erection deflates like a bike tire punctured by a score of nails.

Howard’s hands grip Vince’s upper arms. Vince can hear the sharp intake of Howard’s breath (a flighty gasp of _oh no_ ) before his shopkeeping instincts come to the fore. He sounds nervous, but not wholly unwelcoming as he says, “Er, hello, sir.”

The old man turns his head. His empty eyes are (maybe) focused on Howard, but it’s awfully hard to tell where bottomless black eyes are focused since they don’t have any fucking pupils. They just slide around in the old man’s head like endless treadmills of night. Which, you know, sure. 

Great. 

The old man doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either. He just stands there. Looms, actually, is the correct term for the menacing way in which he occupies his space in the shop. 

“Looking for something… um… specific? Or…?” Howard continues gamely (suicidally).

The old man opens his mouth and about a pint of green-black slime slides out of his mouth, down his front, and onto the shop floor. His teeth are bared at them in a child’s deformed drawing of a grin.

Howard swallows audibly. “No? Okay, we’ll just…” He clutches Vince and starts pulling him toward the storage cabinet and Vince is more than willing to go for an entirely different reason than he was just a moment ago.

“All right, Kyle?”

Vince tears his eyes away from the old man and sees Naboo and Bollo standing at the bottom of the stairs. Naboo doesn’t look in the least be alarmed (he never really does) just seems to take their visitor (Kyle) in stride as though he’s nothing unusual.

“Naboo,” Kyle says. His voice is a ghastly fucking hiss, like the final breath escaping a corpse. 

Vince’s eyes widen further. He tries to encourage Howard to continue back toward the storage cabinet, but Howard is frozen in place now, and it’s like trying to move a recalcitrant water buffalo.

Naboo takes a few steps forward and Kyle holds the box out to him.

“This is it, then?” Naboo asks as Kyle sets the box into his hands. Kyle gives it to him with a sacerdotal veneration, Naboo takes it with reverence. It feels like Vince is watching a bishop take communion from the pope.

“Yes,” Kyle says. His claws caress the edge of the box before he tucks his hands into the long, drooping sleeves of his robe. “Remember my instructions.”

“You got it.”

“Cheers, Naboo,” Kyle says. He shuffles through the slime that he spewed onto the floor and leaves a long, wet track (like the trail of a slug) all the way out of the shop.

Howard’s going to have to clean that up. Vince has no intention of going anywhere near it. 

Naboo hands the box to Bollo and they start to head upstairs.

Terror and curiosity play a quick match of tug of war in Vince’s brain. Curiosity wins, hands down. 

“Who was that?” Vince asks, taking a step toward the stairs to keep Naboo in sight.

“Kyle,” Naboo answers, because, of course.

“Friend of yours?” Howard asks. He moves behind Vince, stands so close, that Vince can feel a tingle run up his spine. They’re not touching, and he knows it’s not possible, but Howard’s body heat ghosts against his skin anyway. It’s well distracting. 

Vince inches forward before Naboo replies, “Yeah,” with a soft finality that is clearly intended to close the subject.

Vince can take a hint. There’s not going to be any more information forthcoming. Also, the pictures on the box are _moving_ like the world’s slowest, darkest Hanna Barbera cartoon, which sort of gets the point across all on its own. _Secret, probably-illegal shaman business, bugger off._

Okay. Fine.

“Come on, Bollo,” Naboo says as he nods toward his familiar. Bollo gingerly holds the box as he follows Naboo up the stairs. Vince watches them go, listens to the sound of their steps dissipate until they’re gone.

“What do you think it is?” Vince asks once he’s sure they’re out of earshot.

“Don’t know,” Howard answers. Doesn’t sound like he cares either.

“That Kyle was mental, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Howard says uneasily. He walks forward and inspects the slime on the floor with his hands on his hips. “That looks like it’s going to stain.”

Vince keeps well away from the slime trail. “We can put a carpet down,” he says.

Howard gives him a look like Vince has just suggested shooting a puppy for chewing a slipper. “Put a carpet down?” he scoffs. He’s winding up, getting ready to deliver a sermon. Some things will never change. Howard and his scolds will never change (thank god). 

“We need to get this cleared up straight away,” he says, his eyes narrow at Vince, he gestures over the slime like he’s trying to form a vortex around it, “try to minimize the damage. Probably we’ll need to strip the floors, use some turpentine, get some mineral wax, sand down the affected area to buff any residual discoloration out. Then we can put down a fresh layer of varnish over the top and have it looking good as new.”

Vince widens his eyes. Sounds like a bloody waste of time. Sounds like a great way to muck up the shop for a fortnight and have everything stinking of floor varnish for a month. Vince doesn’t bother raising these possible objections. He just _looks_ at Howard.

Howard looks back at him. He ignores Vince’s pointed facial expression. “Lay a carpet down,” Howard scoffs. He shakes his head. “Honestly.”

Vince stares up at the ceiling. If he’s completely honest, the only thing better for his libido than Howard’s fuck-me eyes is _this_. 

Howard acting all high and mighty and superior, like he’s the only one with half an ounce of sense, like he’s bone practical, dead steady, hellishly dull. The sort of man whose idea for a big night out is a pub quiz at his local and maybe a second pint if he feels like getting a bit squiffy. 

And Vince proving to him just how wrong about himself he is.

When he looks down again, his and Howard’s eyes lock together. Vince takes a step toward him. He wants to make him forget that there is a mess on the floor, that he and Vince have recently been terrified (now the danger has passed, Vince is eager to get back to where they were), to make him forget that they’re standing in the middle of the shop (where anyone at all could walk by and see). 

He wants to feel Howard slip under his pull, wants to feel Howard ooze back into him irresistibly, to feel the moment when Howard’s desire for him overwhelms his common sense, (let it happen, Howard) but he doesn’t.

Howard looks away. He takes a step away from Vince that feels almost like a slap. “Not now,” he says firmly. “I’ve got to go get some... cleaning supplies.”

Cleaning supplies. Right. Of course.

Howard walks to the door. Bustles toward it. Like he’s in a rush. He turns back with his hand on the door, “Mind the shop ‘til I get back?”

“Yeah,” Vince agrees.

Howard smiles at him and Vince gives him a lukewarm smile in return. Howard opens the door, the shop bell rings again, and he dashes out. 

As soon as Howard leaves, Vince looks down at the messy floor. 

He _does not_ feel disappointed. He knows that Howard is still Howard, and he always will be. He should be happy that Howard is all over clearing up the mess. Means he won’t have to deal with it. 

Vince pulls himself up out of the slouch that he’s fallen into. He walks behind the counter, leans forward on his elbows, and examines his fingernails before he picks up a tiny, wooden nutcracker push puppet. He depresses the bottom and watches it flop and spring back up a dozen times. He puts it back down next to the till and looks outside. The sky is a dull, boring grey, like it might snow. The radio is still on and Vince listens to that song from the Snoopy Christmas movie.

The song stops and the DJ comes on again. He sounds full of forced cheer, like the station manager is holding a gun to his head and if he doesn’t sound completely tickled, he’s going to pull the trigger. The DJ tells a shit joke. He says something mean about his mum’s turkey. Finally, he reads a request. “ _…and this one goes out to Phil in Kensington Gardens. Phil, there are other girls out there, take it from your pal, Johnnie Quicksilver. Cheer up, and Happy Christmas, mate._ ”

 _Last Christmas_ starts playing and Vince realizes, as he listens to it, that it’s actually a bit sad. 

Upstairs, Naboo opens the door to his room. Bollo shuffles awkwardly with the box, as though it’s difficult to carry. It had felt improbably heavy when Naboo held it down in the shop, but he knows it is only an illusion. It’s just one of the many properties meant to guard its contents.

Bollo sets it down on the end of Naboo’s bed and backs away from it like it’s a tiger that might spring at him if he breaks eye contact with it. Once he bumps into the wall, he looks at Naboo and says, “I got a bad feeling about this.”

“Thanks, you nob,” Naboo says as he puts scarves over the lamps in his room, “glad to hear you’ve got a bad feeling about pet-sitting one of the most dangerous creatures on Earth.” The already soft light is made even softer, like the interior of a top-grade opium den, a place where bad dreams cannot possibly find you, even though there is a literal nightmare lurking in the center of the soft featherbed.

Naboo watches the box warily. The pictograms writhe like a cauldron of worms. _Death and torture within, stay away_.

Naboo shoots a glance at Bollo. Bollo shakes his head and grunts. He tucks himself into the corner, as far back from the bed as he can get. _Above my paygrade_ he seems to say.

Naboo steels himself. He puts his fingertips on the catches on the sides of the box, presses them in, and the lid of the box pops. He opens it slowly, the dark interior barely illuminated by the dim light.

At first, he sees nothing, but then in one dark corner, a clump of fur resolves itself into a living creature. The creature itself is small, with large, amber eyes that peer up at him adorably. Its giant ears twitch like landing flaps on a jet’s wings. 

“Bodmai,” it chirrups squeakily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs mentioned and referred to in this fic are songs that I personally (and greatly to my own personal embarrassment) love. As a goth girl, there is nothing worse than having a love of Christmas music. Trust me.
> 
> The fairy light addiction might be mine too.


	2. Chapter 2

Howard is pretty shit at being a boyfriend.

At least, he’s pretty sure that’s true.

He considers this as he walks down the cold streets, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, dodging puddles of slush and wishing he’d thought to grab his coat. 

All around him are people walking and chatting. Most of them look happy, drugged up on ‘Christmas spirit’ like a bunch of Dickensian bookkeeping clerks who’ve just convinced their boss to give them Christmas Day off. They talk about plans for the holiday, where they’ll go, who they’ll spend it with. Howard walks behind a few girls who chat about what they’re hoping they’ll get from their boyfriends (a sweater, some boots, a ring) before they turn down a side street in search of something to eat.

Howard peers at them uneasily, thinking that each of them are probably more competently boyfriended than Vince will ever be, because good boyfriends probably don’t neglect to get Christmas presents for their partners until they are forcibly reminded that presents and Christmas sort of go together by nothing less remarkable than the appearance of a demonic old warlock with a box full of nightmares.

The thought had trickled into Howard’s brain like whey strained out of cheese curd.

Christmas music, strangely warm, was underpinning the scene. The old man was holding a box, presenting it to Naboo. Like a gift. Like a Christmas gift. Vince was backed against Howard, Howard was holding him, holding him like the old man was holding the box, the gift. 

Christmas music. Christmas. Gift. Christmas gift. Vince. Boyfriend. Christmas. Christmas gift. Boyfriend.

And then the thought crystalized.

Christmas + Boyfriend = Gift (!!)

And, whoa there. Since when does he think of Vince as his _boyfriend_? 

They haven’t had an actual discussion of terms. Neither of them has ever said _this is what we are_ or even hinted that it isn’t just purely physical. But it isn’t just physical, is it? 

Or maybe it is. 

Vince, after all, hasn’t exactly made an announcement, has he? In fact, they’ve both been careful to keep the whole thing secret. So, maybe he should just forget about gifts and pretend like everything is just the same as it always has been.

Christ, Howard doesn’t even like Christmas. It’s the worst day of the whole 365 in his opinion. All the false sentiment, the pressure to be _happy_ , the commercialism. The whole thing shrieks of falseness. Meaningless meaning, that’s what it all is. Let’s pretend that family and friends mean everything, when, really, your family is just as likely to fuck you over as anyone else, and your friends are probably cheering them on while they do it.

Even the supposed miracle that most people have collectively agreed they aren’t actually celebrating, the one that has to do with babies and mangers and improbable stars guiding old men across wildernesses for the world’s most unsanitary baby shower is ridiculous.

All any of it is for is getting people to spend money, and to set up poor idiots in nebulous relationships for failure.

Has Vince bought him anything? No way to know. They don’t usually exchange gifts at Christmas. Vince knows about Howard’s anti-Christmas stance and he respects it, and he’s never seemed disappointed when Howard hasn’t gotten him anything before. 

Anyway, Vince’ll get small gifts for Naboo and Bollo, probably for Leroy, too, but he usually leaves Howard out of it.

There have been things, over the years, though. Scarves, hats, gloves; just cheap excuses to encourage Howard to _accessorize_ passed off as caring about him and trying to keep him from freezing to death. Howard has never accepted any of it.

Which, yeah, is probably a bit dickish upon reflection. Particularly since he could actually use a warm pair of gloves for the winter; but the point is, Howard doesn’t buy into the false message of Christmas. He’s got other things on his mind. Like how fucking dark it is. And the cold. And hypocrisy. 

And…

He’s shagging his best mate.

Who might be a bit too good for him.

Who he doesn’t want to lose because of a stubborn distaste for something that he rightly hates, but Vince emphatically _doesn’t_.

But, conversely, he doesn’t want to upset the applecart with a present out of the blue, because if Howard gets Vince a gift, comment will be made. By Naboo, by Bollo and, probably, by Vince himself. 

_Good job tipping everyone off to the fact we’re bumming, idiot_. He can visualize Vince’s narrowed eyes, his mouth slightly down-turned, the look he’ll give Howard if he fucks this up.

Howard does not want to fuck up.

If he gets him a present, will Vince think that Howard is getting too invested in something that is maybe not what Howard wants it to be? Come to that, what does Howard want it to be?

He thinks about it. For about two miles of ice-and-salt-crusted pavements. Shouldn’t he just know what he wants? _Doesn’t_ he just know what he wants? 

He has a vague idea about the two of them retiring to Scotland someday, which seems pretty long-term, actually, now he has it in his head, as well as unlikely, since he can’t imagine Vince agreeing to live further from Shoreditch than Brixton. They’d probably row about it for months if it ever came time to make the decision, and, very probably, at the end, they’d end up in a small flat right inside Dalston, no further than a stone’s throw from where they are now, and Howard would call the whole thing a compromise, even though it would be perfectly obvious exactly who had done the actual compromising.

He’d obviously not tell Vince that he’s already got some forty or fifty years of possible plans mapped out (accompanied by arguments, compromises, and make-up sex) for them in his head. 

Those sorts of weighty, long-term considerations are precisely what Howard needs to avoid. It’d be coming on far too strong. Being too serious. He’d spook Vince clear out of the water with something like that. He’s got to let him settle in his open palm like a tremulous bird, and Howard always has to be prepared for him to take flight if he likes. That’s Vince’s nature.

Somehow, a Christmas gift feels like a tether that he might resent.

But if he doesn’t get him a gift and Vince has got him one, Howard will look like a pillock; like he doesn’t care, when he definitely does. He cares quite a bit, actually. 

He just can’t make it seem like he cares _too much_.

Howard feels like he’s wandering lost and alone in a bog with no map. He doesn’t know how to do this thing that he’s doing with Vince. He wasn’t really prepared for it, wasn’t really expecting it. It just sort of happened, and it continues to just sort of happen. It’s like a toddler learning to walk, propelled more by dumb luck and grit than actual coordination. It’s not elegant, but it works.

_Until it stops._

Right now, though, it works, and things with Vince are good. Really good.

Maybe too good.

Howard doesn’t trust good things. Just look around. The flowers that bloom in spring inevitably die. The light of day inevitably terminates in the dark of night. Frost haunts the eaves of every summer. What begins with a shout of joy ends with a whisper of regret, like the last gasps of melancholy music that haunt a deserted carnival, the half-remembered melody whistling through the shattered glass of a curved mirror that catches sight of twisting spare mannequin parts, a phantasmagoric horror-show funhouse of shit that mocks what once was and what will never be again.

He hears it, then, that voice that is not Howard’s voice that comes to him every once in a while. _Jesus, relax, alright?_

But Howard can’t relax. He knows that good things are just traps waiting to be sprung like perpetual, machinating Jacks-in-Boxes. Jacks-in-the-Box? Jack-in-the-Boxes? Whatever. Point is the same. 

Good things can only sour into disappointment; they only exist to remind you that nothing in life lasts, least of all happiness, particularly when you’re Howard Moon.

 _Howard!_ says the voice again in exasperation, _Can’t you just be pleased for once?_

No, Howard can’t be pleased, not truly. Not when Vince insists on keeping them secret.

_Yeah, well, you’ve not said anything either, have you?_

No, but Howard isn’t the one who can’t shut up for two seconds about how _genius_ this or that new thing is. Whatever else, fucking Howard is new. If it was actually more than that, such as a possibly permanent fixture in a life they would be walking through hand-in-hand forever, Vince wouldn’t be able to stop himself from telling someone.

Howard cannot recall another secret that Vince has kept so successfully. He forgets about crimps and satsuma battles. He forgets how Vince holds onto him when they do get a chance to wake up in the same bed together. He forgets that there are so many things that belong just to the two of them. 

What he remembers is that Vince has never once mentioned _them_ to anyone. He remembers the way that Vince leans away from him any time someone enters the room when they’re standing too close to one another, like he’s embarrassed by the possible implication that the proximity might bring.

Vince won’t even touch him if someone else is in the room. How is Howard meant to take that? Especially when, Howard is pretty sure, he used to. Not a lot, but there were little, casual touches before. Touches that Howard used to rebuff. Touches that Howard now craves.

So… maybe they aren’t boyfriends. Maybe they won’t argue over where to go for holidays, or where to retire to, or even what to have for dinner _that night_. Like the axe of a waiting headman, doom is crouching in the corner and breathing wetly in the darkness.

Maybe Howard is just a shag. A repeated shag. A nearly-any-time-Vince-can-get-him shag.

That, at least… well, he can feel a little reassurance there.

The sex is good. Strange to think that he hasn’t got any doubts about that; something he’d been nervous of for as long as he can remember is the one thing that he knows is actually alright. Fuck it, better than alright. It’s… bloody brilliant. 

Howard can’t help the sly smirk that spreads over his face, thinking of the last time he and Vince had the flat to themselves for a night. Vince’s room, bathed in soft light, Vince atop him, riding him, his head tossed back, Howard’s hand around his prick, Vince practically crying while chanting, ‘yes, yes, yes, oh, Howard, like that, fuck me, Christ, yes,’ while Howard thrust up into him until Vince came, his spunk shooting all the way to Howard’s chest, Howard losing himself seconds later, Vince kissing him, heedless of any mess, smiling and laughing against Howard’s skin. 

So, yeah, the sex is good for both of them in a plot twist that still surprises Howard every time. _You like this? Really?_ and the answer, for both of them, is always and absolutely yes.

In Vince’s case, often quite literally. It’s unsurprising how perfectly vocal Vince is when it comes to sex, but it doesn’t translate beyond that.

Vince doesn’t talk about emotion. 

Neither does Howard.

Howard doesn’t want to and Vince— Howard has no way to know what he’s thinking. For him, maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but for Howard… it’s more.

It has been more since the first time it happened. Does it mean anything to Vince? Does Vince know that Howard’s heart has come along with his body?

Again, probably not. It’s not like Howard has told him.

Call him a coward, but he’s not about to be the one to say _it_ first. 

Howard said it first once, and that experience was more than enough to last him a lifetime. He hadn’t even half meant it then like he does now. Then it was _I love you because you’re my best mate_ , and, yeah, maybe, if he really looks at it crosswise, there was more to it than that, even then; but now it’s _I love you like you’re the reason I bloody breathe_. 

Imagine getting laughed at now.

Howard can, and he does. He wouldn’t be able to take it.

 _Say how you feel with flowers!_ an advert implores him. Howard sneers at it, at the woman holding out a white vase full of creamy, white flowers toward a creamy white old lady that Howard guesses is meant to be her mum or maybe her nan if her parents got an early start. The whole thing looks like vanilla ice cream tastes and Howard hates it. 

It’s an overly simplistic sentiment. Here’s a thing that means love, therefore, if I give it to you it means that I, by proxy, feel for you the thing that this thing means.

It’s just not that easy. You don’t just say _that_ with flowers or otherwise unless you’re sure that the other person feels it too.

Howard has no confidence in his ability to inspire that emotion in anyone, least of all Vince, who is just so bloody _much_. 

And none of this helps him in his quandary. He’s still one fuck south of nowhere in the whole gift quagmire.

The good news is that if he does get Vince a present, it can be almost anything. He could probably get him an empty tin of beans and Vince would love it, make it into a hat, and have all his idiot friends wearing ones just like it within a week. 

Howard legitimately considers doing just that but decides against it. 

If he is Vince’s boyfriend, he wants to be better than an empty tin of beans for a present boyfriend. He wants to be at least a _full_ tin of beans for a present boyfriend. 

He imagines one of those girls from before opening a tin of beans from one of their boyfriends. They’d probably chuck it straight at the bastard. Vince is deceptively accurate with a throw… So, it might be wise to try and be a non-tinned item for a present boyfriend. 

The type of boyfriend who shows up with a box that has something in it that has never touched the shelf of a Tesco. 

A smoked ham boyfriend?

Not really better, that, is it? 

Howard wracks his brain to think of what Vince likes. He comes up with the obvious. Clothes, hair product, Mick Jagger. 

Jagger is out of his price range. Plus, what Vince might actually _do_ with Mick if given the opportunity makes him a little anxious, so he crosses any Jagger related experiences straight off the list.

Vince’s hair is a minefield. It requires a veritable pantheon of product applied in a precise alchemical formula that Howard cannot guess. He watched Vince style his hair once for over fifty minutes and Vince _still wasn’t done_ at the end of Howard’s patience. The wrong product would probably cause the whole thing to combust, and either Vince would die, or he would kill Howard in impassioned rage, but, either way, they definitely wouldn’t be anything anymore. 

Clothes are always an option. Vince would love a new shirt, scarf, tie, whatever, if Howard were to get him one, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Vince has lots of clothes. Howard wants to get him something special, if he’s going to get him anything at all.

Howard makes a noise of frustration that alarms a mother and her children. She gathers them to her, a duck defending her ducklings from an idiot dog hell-bent on chasing them. He goes to tip a hat that he isn’t wearing, wonders at his impulse to perform a gesture that is at least seventy years too late to be meaningful, and shrinks in on himself like a collapsing souffle. The woman glares at him as he skulks past. He mumbles a soft, “Sorry,” that he doubts she hears.

He hunches his shoulders and wishes, not for the first time, that he wasn’t the person he actually is. 

_He’s making a mistake_ , that thought chases its tail in his head for a bit. Vince is making a mistake, being with him. Howard is making a mistake letting him.

Fiery end. That’s what this is all coming to. Not yet, maybe, but eventually... it’s got to. Vince is going to wake up one day, look over at Howard, and realize that he could do so much bloody better. He could go out and get someone who doesn’t look old enough to be his dad for a start. Someone who isn't wearing an extra twenty-five pounds around his middle. Someone who doesn’t embarrass him.

Maybe one of those twinkly girls that are always hanging about him at clubs. That’s what Howard hopes for anyway. It’d be better to be left for some girl than if it were another bloke. Better if he could tell himself that Vince must have missed playing with proper tits rather than watching him fall in love with some dickhead with a sixpack and pecks you could level a shelf with.

Vince could go out and get that tomorrow if he wanted.

Get himself someone _fun_.

Someone who would shower him with gifts, Christmas or not. You can’t really adore Vince too much, unless, of course, you’re Howard.

He thinks of an improbable parade of gifts, of piling them so high under the tree, that it gets hidden behind a mountain of Christmas wrap. He thinks of Vince’s wide eyes going wider, blue and gleaming, and looking up at Howard with delight and surprise.

Then he thinks of how Vince’s initial pleasure would turn into something else. Give him time to think, and Vince isn’t stupid. He’d be able to work it out, that the gifts weren’t just tokens of adoration, but little hooks Howard was latching into him, to get him to stay, to keep him ignoring what it is that he needs to ignore to let Howard be with him. 

Howard would do just about anything to continue to be with him.

If only he knew what that was.

He has two days to work this situation out. Present or no present? If present, what should it be? If no present…

Should he just tell Vince that it’s over? His mind immediately jumps there.

If Vince _doesn’t_ , and Howard can’t tell him that _he_ does, then shouldn’t Howard stop it, because won’t it, in the end, hurt too much when Vince finally ends it himself?

He will. He’ll wake up and realize, eventually that Howard... is just Howard. 

He shuffles into the DIY like a deflated balloon. He half-hears a woman rapping above him:

_Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas  
But I think, I'll miss this one this year_

And even half-heard, Howard agrees with the sentiment.

Everything in the DIY is kept pin-neat and completely organized. It’s a soothing place. The shelves are stocked in rational order, everything in the store is thematically related. 

He’d like the shop to look like this, in an ideal world, but Vince takes inventory arrangement as an artistic exercise. He insists that part of the reason people come in is to look at the rotating collection of nonsense that he moves and adjusts daily, according to his own whims for what looks right where.

Howard has to admit that the shop does have a flair that the DIY lacks, but still, he can’t help but feel reassured by the sheer logic of grouping everything sensibly together.

He picks out what he needs for the floor in a fog, wandering the aisles for longer than necessary, just letting the spanners (hung according to size), the hammers (over eight distinct varieties), and the different types of glue (wood glue, rubber cement, super glue) work their magic on him. He sees a tube of fabric glue and thinks that maybe it might make a nice present, but he knows that Vince would never stoop to gluing his clothes. 

He keeps a needle and thread for emergencies in his pocket at all times. It’s one of the few ways in which he is more prepared than Howard. That, and his ready supply of mirrors.

When he’s finally gathered all of his supplies, Howard walks up to the counter and queues behind a chubby man wearing a tweed vest and cap. He’s got a well-kept white beard and a sort of vacuous smile that he directs at Howard before he looks forward again. He has a basket full of fairy lights. Howard thinks that he will escape any sort of awkward queue chat, but then the other man looks back at Howard’s items, “Last minute DIY, eh?”

He’s fucking _American_. Perfect.

Howard glances at his own basket as though he doesn’t know what’s in it. “Oh, yeah.”

The man nods sagely, “Thought so.”

He keeps his eyes on Howard like an expectant puppy waiting for conversational crumbs to fall on the floor. Howard glances ahead of them. The register girl is occupied with someone who has apparently decided to buy out the store’s supply of cordless drill accessories. Howard sighs, accepting his fate. 

“Last minute decorating?” he asks.

The man chuckles, pats the top box of lights, “Oh, yes. Wife sent me out. She wants to redo the whole tree. I told her not to bother, looks beautiful, I said, but she’s got her heart set on it and, well, what the little lady wants, the little lady gets. I’m sure you understand,” he adds with a wink.

“Um… yeah.”

“Oh, sorry, are you single?”

Here we fucking go, Howard thinks to himself. He’s heard America referred to as the land of opportunity. Should be referred to the land of nosing into other people’s business. “Oh, no. Not single. As such. Just… bit of a query, a bit of a question mark, a bit of an inscrutable er… mystery. But I do have a… sort of a thing,” he finishes lamely. 

The man seems to be working out this statement about as successfully as a camel doing algebra. 

Howard clears his throat, “It’s complicated, I suppose.”

“Like a delivering pizza within the twenty-minute guarantee in a planned unit development,” the man says with a tap against the side of his nose.

“I guess,” Howard says, failing to see the connection, but agreeing like he’s negotiating a hostage situation. He watches the hands of the checkout girl move like they’re forcing themselves through invisible playsand as she picks up a mortar bit and swipes it through the scanner.

“Well, take it from me,” the man continues, unfazed. “Best thing to do is look at the house numbers and street names. Don’t try to orient yourself with landmarks. That’s how you get turned around.”

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Everything in those places looks the same,” he says with a slowly building vehemence. Howard hears the strains of Barber’s Adagio for Strings layering over the imagery as he speaks, like he’s watching a heavy-handed war film.

“Siding all the same color, Neutral Beige. That’s what the association wanted. The houses all the same shape. Four windows at the front, and the doors… the doors all black. The landscaping. No white pines, not a single holly bush. Just boxwoods. Boxwoods, far as the eye can see. Boxwoods everywhere. 

“Trimmed to a height no greater than two feet. You get lost in those boxwoods. They play hell with a deliveryman, the green devils. Gremlins hide in those boxwoods. Gremlins that rip your transmission right out from under your car. Forget the twenty-minute guarantee. Kiss your hot pizza goodbye. It just bleeds steam until it goes cold, like a ghost sliding out of its meat sack, and then you’re finished. Dead car, cold pizza, no tip. It’s over.” The man falls silent. 

He’s somewhere blighted and far away. Like Slough. 

Howard says nothing, prays to holy hell that the queue will start making visible progress.

The girl behind the checkout catches Howard’s stare and glares at him before returning her attention to the task at hand. Of course, the scanner refuses something. He watches her swipe it back and forth six times before she turns it over and then pages overhead for someone called Carl to do a price check.

Hairy balls of Christ, Howard hates his life.

The man shakes himself out of whatever bad memory he’d gotten trapped in. He looks up at Howard, brightening. “So, a bit of girl trouble, then, right before the holiday, eh? Well, take the advice of me, a married man.” He beckons Howard closer.

In spite of himself, Howard finds himself interested. He hasn’t got anyone to talk to about any of this since everyone he knows, knows Vince too. The secret nature of their relationship precludes him from talking to anyone about any of it. At this point, he’s positively starved for relationship advice. He leans a little closer. 

The old man smiles. A look of sagacity steals across his face. Howard expects something profound, or at least helpful. What he gets is, “Just go down on her.”

“Pardon?” Howard asks, aghast.

“Service that pussy with your tongue. Give it a good mouthing. Let your lips whisper sweet nothings to her downstairs bits. Don’t try to dick her until you lick her.”

“No, no. She… isn’t a she. She’s a he. And he… we don’t… It’s not like…” Howard stutters.

“Oh, well a good ol’ BJ works just as well, take it from me, a man,” the old man says with another wink.

“We haven’t… that’s not… er… a problem. We get on with all that… perfectly well,” Howard clarifies. “We just have an undefined sort of… union.”

“A loose association?”

“We live together. We’re best mates.”

“So, you’re life partners?”

“No. Not… no. Sort of…” Howard grasps for an appropriate term like he’s trying to pick up a partially dissolved Altoid out of a can of seltzer.

“Fuck buddies?”

Howard’s sense of decorum suddenly raises an objection. “You know, I feel that I don’t really know you well enough to be having this conversation.”

“That’s fair.”

“Yeah.”

They stand in silence for an awkward moment. The man shuffles his feet a little, “Look, son, maybe I’m no relationship expert, but I do know this: falling in love, it doesn’t happen that often and if you let your chance go, you’ll always regret it. If this person is important to you, you should let him know.”

The old man’s eyes twinkle in a very holiday appropriate way, like he’s Father Christmas in disguise come to give Howard advice so that he can get the girl (or in this case, the boy) by the end of the film.

It’s clichéd, a little too on-the-nose, like one of those horrible Christmas specials that get put out to soak up as much cash out of the market as possible, but still… he finds it oddly comforting.

“That’s actually—”

“With mouth sex.”

“Okay,” Howard’s lips purse, he nods, “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Next!” calls the clerk impatiently.

Howard watches the man bumble up to the check out. As he leaves, he waves at Howard and Howard waves back. _Yeah, see you in hell, you bloody berk_.

Except, the mouth sex advice hasn’t totally soured the overall message. Vince is important to Howard. He’s probably Howard’s most important person, in fact.

Has been for years, really, not just since they started bumming. Vince is his best mate. He honestly _loves_ Vince, and if he loves Vince…

Some things are supposed to be worth the risk. He’s not quite sure how the metric works when you’re risking the very thing you want to keep, but he doesn’t want to stay in a weird half-relationship that he can’t even describe to a stranger when asked. He wants to be either A or B, and to get that... he’s going to have to try something.

He feels a cold sweat start under his arms. Just the thought of doing anything to upset the delicate balance... but, no. Not this time. 

He thanks the girl behind the counter and walks out onto the cold streets of London in search of the perfect gift.


	3. Chapter 3

Vince ends up having a go at the slime. It starts to stink after Howard’s been gone for about twenty minutes. Then it starts to bubble like some nightmarish volcanic ooze after another twenty. Once it starts whispering, Vince feels he doesn’t really have a choice. 

He takes paper towels, wads them up, and sort of piles the slime into itself so that it’s more or less gathered in a central location. The slime seems to appreciate this. It makes encouraging hums while he does it. He scoops up the paper towels and tosses them in a bin bag. The slime asks him if he can leave it open a titch so that it can stretch its legs if it likes.

Vince ties the bag extra tight before he takes it to the designated refuse collection area.

It _has_ left a stain on the floor. It’s a grimy, blackish film that has a sort of dull gleam to it, like the eye of a dead shark. 

He wonders what is taking Howard so long and keeps wondering as it gradually gets darker outside, as people trickle in and out of the shop. He wonders to the point where he can’t even distract himself with the glittery little snow globes that he shakes and returns to the shelves in a sort of sparkling relay, to see if he can get them all going at once.

He walks around the front of the counter, starts fussing with the clothing racks.

_Where is he?_

He tries on different hats (fez, fedora, cowboy). He changes his boots (black six-inch heels, blue platforms, gold Chelsea).

He puts on a different shirt (shimmery lamé), a different jacket (red satin), switches out his black flares for a white pair of drainpipes. By the time he’s done, he looks like a kitsch tree topper, like a living cup of wassail.

_Where is he?_

He goes up to the attic and gets out the final box of dangerous lights. Howard hasn’t noticed that he’s left them down anyway. He’s left Vince alone too long, and he’s more or less asked for this. It’s a protest against his abandonment, to put them up. 

He puts them up around the ceiling that leads to the back door and lines the side of the stairs with them in a boxy zig-zag. It’s a protest, yeah, but it’s also a summoning ritual, doing something that Howard will no doubt be irritated by. Goat’s blood, candles, and rabbit entrails for a demon, something mildly unsafe for Howard. 

Vince waits for the irritated huff, the telltale sigh of disapproval that will mark Howard’s materialization back onto Vince’s plane of existence. 

It doesn’t come.

_Where is he?_

The thought pulses with a metronomic regularity for _hours_. 

It’s unlike Howard to be gone so long without something having happened to him (a stunning variety of horrible things have happened to him) but Vince doesn’t get that sense (it’s like a sixth sense) (an internal bat signal that switches on) that he feels whenever something bad has happened to Howard. It just feels like he’s gone, and he’s fine. Which is fine. 

Of course that’s fine, but _where is he?_

It’s a little like worry and a little that he just wants Howard home. To deal with the slime. To talk to. To take over minding the shop. Whatever. People do want other people for things, all the time. It’s not that he’s worried that Howard is having fun without him (he should have fun without Vince, of course he should) (half the things he thinks are fun are boring anyway) and it’s certainly not that Vince is worried about something far more abstract and less easy to pin down.

 _How long until...?_

It’s not that at all. It’s just—never mind.

Who cares what it is?

It’s only when he’s dragged down the last box of Christmas decorations and started dusting off the little village within that he realizes that he hasn’t seen Naboo since earlier that afternoon and he begins to wonder if he, himself, is the one who has tipped into a photographic negative of reality and failed to notice.

It’s a decent enough hour to knock off anyway. He abandons the village, half unpacked and flips the sign to closed. He goes upstairs.

The flat is quiet. 

Not just quiet. 

Silent. Empty. Eerie. 

“Bollo?” Vince calls. “Naboo?”

He doesn’t get an answer, his voice just falls out of his mouth and hits the carpet like wet spaghetti.

He turns a slow circle, looking for weird paintings, or strange fetish dolls, or some type of etched glyph on the floor, but there’s nothing. Just the sofa, the telly, the Christmas tree that he hasn’t plugged in yet, and the uninhabited dark. 

He walks the perimeter of the flat, through the living room, around the kitchen. Illogically, he checks the oven and the freezer, just _in case_ , before he moves down the hall. He checks his room (nothing out of place) and Howard’s room ( _absolutely_ nothing out of place) (it’s so neat, he feels a little thrill of _something_ ) (he wants to mess the sheets up, throw the pillows off the bed, take Howard’s records out of their designated crates and…) before he walks back to Naboo’s door.

He knocks. “Naboo?”

He doesn’t hear anything. He’s about to assume the worst (Howard is rubbing off on him) when the door cracks open a hair.

Bollo’s eye peers at him.

“Bollo,” Vince says with relief.

There’s a noise like a synthesizer dialed to its cutest setting coming from within Naboo’s room. Vince tries to look around Bollo (impossible) and hears Naboo utter a whispered, “Quiet,” to someone or something. The noise stops.

“What’s that?” Vince asks.

“Uh… nothing,” Bollo says quickly (too quickly). “It just… hamster.”

“A singing hamster?” Vince asks excitedly (yeah, he’s knows it’s bullshit, but a singing hamster would be _genius_ ).

“No. Just regular hamster. Normal hamster. Not magic hamster.”

Vince feels his eyes get wide of their own volition. Concerns about Howard get thrust aside by the absolute glory that would be a magic hamster. He pictures it with shimmering rainbow fur, a little horn in the middle of its forehead, and dragonfly wings on its back. “Does it grant wishes?”

Bollo makes a noise that isn’t confirmation but isn’t denial either.

“C’mon, Bollo. Can’t I just…”

“No. Nothing to see,” Bollo insists. He closes Naboo’s door on Vince.

Vince presses his ear against the wood and holds his breath.

He can just barely hear Naboo talking to Bollo.

“Nice job.”

“What Bollo supposed to say?”

“We’re listening to Lindsey Buckingham’s latest solo project, maybe? Not magic hamsters.”

Vince leans away. 

He knows that it isn’t actually a magic hamster (it could be though) but whatever it is (what if it shits Randoms?) is probably at least as good. He tries to work out a way to get Naboo to come out of his room, or to get him to invite Vince in, but nothing comes to him. All he knows is that he _has got_ to see whatever it is that Naboo is hiding.

It isn’t until he hears the door downstairs open and shut that he remembers Howard.

He’s hit with relief first (a river of it washes over him like mountain rain flooding through a desert basin) but then the relief passes and he’s annoyed. By the time Howard gets upstairs, Vince is standing at the top of them, with his arms folded over his chest.

Howard looks him up and down, “Did you change?” he asks conversationally “You look nice. I like the hat.” He smiles and Vince suppresses his immediate urge to preen under Howard’s attention. If Howard tries something, to lean in for a kiss, or to even touch Vince’s hand, Vince knows that his anger will be gone as quick as it came. But Howard doesn’t. 

He’s holding a brown bag that he hoists up high as he slides past Vince (like Vince is just in the way) into the kitchen. He puts it down on the kitchen counter and fiddles with the top of it. Vince is not jealous of a boring, brown paper bag that can apparently absorb all of Howard’s attention for an entire afternoon (technically, he knows, the bag hasn’t done that, whatever is in the bag has, but the thought stands). 

What’s annoying him is that Howard probably went out and had a normal, boring Howard afternoon and didn’t even stop to think about Vince for a moment. Then he comes back in here with his compliments and his smiles and his complete disregard for Vince and thinks that he can just pick up where he left off?

To borrow a fucking phrase, no sir.

Howard begins taking items from the bag and putting them on the counter. He slips a couple of things into the cabinets.

Vince swivels in place to trace his movements. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Howard is oblivious to the icy silence.

“Where were you?” Vince asks at last, and now, it seems, Howard is picking up on the fact that Vince is not happy.

Howard’s eyes slide shiftily away (lying eyes), “Just the hardware store. Packed it was. Full of... folk.”

“Folk?”

“Yes, folk.”

“Alright, Emmet Otter. Suppose all your mates were down there, were they?”

“No,” Howard says slowly. “Just, a lot of people out. Holidays and all that,” he’s nonchalant, smooth, easy. Vince feels a prickle of suspicion. It’s not just his eyes, Howard isn’t telling him the whole truth, and before Vince can examine _that_ , Howard clears his throat. 

“You want to have dinner before we get to work on the floor? I’m starving.”

Vince can’t form words for a moment, “I’m not going near that floor,” he says, emphatically. “You’ve been gone half the night. I had to stand down in that shop with no one to talk to for _hours_. It was boring,” Vince leans back against the railing, physically unable to support both himself and the memory of the tedium (and worry) of the whole stupid afternoon.

Howard sniffs. He sets something in a plastic bottle on the counter with a louder than necessary tap. “Sorry you were bored.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t just bored, was I? I had to wipe up that muck and it was disgusting.”

“Okay, well, sorry you had to wipe something messy off the floor,” Howard says. His voice is getting that tension to it, that irritated not-actually-sorry-at-all, piss-off-please type tone. “Were you just going to leave it until I got back?” he asks.

“I was, actually, because I thought you’d only be gone for twenty minutes. I didn’t think you’d be gone all day.”

“Why would you leave it?”

“Because you’re better at cleaning than I am,” Vince says defensively, before he remembers that he’s not the one in trouble. Howard is meant to be the one apologizing. “Anyway, it’s taken care of, isn’t it? Now you just have to do your floor restoration or whatever. Suppose that will take all night.”

“Possibly, yes.”

Vince groans, “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“How about you try helping me?” Howard half-mumbles, but not quietly enough that Vince doesn’t hear him. Howard turns toward him. His mouth goes flat and tight, his eyes squinch up nervously, “Do you have to lean against the bannister like that?” he asks abruptly.

“What?”

“You’re just… you’re playing with fire is all,” he says, his hands fanning out as though trying to suppress an inflating air mattress.

Vince bumps his hips back (the railing creaks) and stands up straight, “What are you talking about?”

“Railing safety.”

“Railing…? Howard, it’s a railing. It’s meant to keep people from falling over the edge of things. Literally its only purpose in life.”

“It provides a physical boundary, yes, but they are not meant to be leaned upon. You lean on a railing too long and it’s liable to collapse and then—”

“And then you’d have to clean that up too, right?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah, well, what is?”

Howard only shakes his head and Vince rolls his eyes. He takes his hat off, ruffles a hand through the back of his hair and up through his fringe.

“Whatever,” he says sulkily. “Naboo is hiding something, now you’re being a tit. Happy fucking Christmas, right?”

There is another shift to Howard’s eyes, like sand is slipping out from under his feet. 

“What is going on with you?” Vince asks.

“Nothing!” Howard says, sharp, defensive, instantaneous. Vince knows, now, that there is something. 

Vince thrills. Howard (it occurs to him like a capering bear) might know what Naboo is hiding. If Howard knows, it’s only a matter of time until Vince knows. He gives Howard a sideways glance, “You look like Ozzy Osbourne standing next to the Alamo with his dick out and piss sliding down the side.”

Howard makes a sound half between a choke and a laugh. He adopts a pose of forced carelessness that is less convincing than Bruce Forsyth in a cocktail dress pretending to be a woman. “Nothing is going on. Normal times happening over here. Just normalism all about. Like an ocean of normality, a flat, unvarying ocean of… regularity. Yes, sir.”

Vince maintains his incredulous stare. 

“It’s nothing,” Howard insists, no more believably than before. _Tell me what you know_ Vince thinks so hard, it practically flashes above his head. Howard’s face goes tight, panicky, “I just hate Christmas is all,” he blurts. “I hate it, alright? And I just… I don’t want to have to think about it.”

“Not this again,” Vince groans. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. He walks to the couch and flops down and puts his hat on over his eyes.

“Did you know that the suicide rate triples around Christmas?” Howard asks (the world’s most depressing collection of fun facts live in Howard’s brain) (they build nice lives for themselves in there) (start families) (adopt pets) (win prizes for rose breeding).

“Yeah, I know. You’ve said,” Vince shakes his head. He sits up and glares at Howard, “Who hates Christmas anyway?”

“Me! And not just me. You know, while some people are slicing turkey, other people are slicing their wrists.”

“Thanks for that. Jesus, Howard.”

“You’re the one who keeps pushing. Push on me, sir, and you get the darkness. You get the pit. You get the bleak midwinter.”

“Yeah, you’re like a flimsy railing, aren’t you? Just fall to bits when someone leans on you for five minutes.”

Howard’s bluster stalls. He goes quiet. He looks worried (why?). He takes something else out of the bag and sets it on the counter. Everything about him goes tentative and slow, like he’s dismantling a bomb following a poorly translated manual.

Vince sighs, “Look, do you know what Naboo is hiding or not?”

“Naboo’s hiding something?”

“Yeah. He’s in his room and he won’t come out. I heard something in there. Sounded,” he shrugs, “I dunno, interesting.”

“Probably something to do with that box, isn’t it?” Howard says reasonably.

This is why Vince needs Howard around. In spite of his being a complete prat, he can at least keep more than one thing in his head at the same time. He can make connections. 

“Of course!” Vince says. He grins at Howard and, just like that, it’s over. Vince doesn’t want to fight any more. He doesn’t want to dwell on depressing facts about Christmas, or insane concerns about collapsing railings. He wants to get at whatever it is that is in Naboo’s room, and Howard is going to help him.

Except Howard still looks like an unhappy stack of past-due library books, like he’s an inconvenience that will need to be dealt with. He’s shrunken down on himself. He’d come home happy, now he looks like a damp sock.

Vince feels a sting of remorse. He doesn’t really think that Howard’s mood is all up to him (after all, pointless bickering is their bread and butter) but he probably shouldn’t have laid it on so thick. Howard hasn’t really done anything wrong. He’s only stayed out a little longer than Vince expected. It’s not a fucking crime, and Vince knows he’s done the same to Howard more than once.

It makes him wonder how Howard feels when the leash is on the other end, if he misses Vince like Vince missed him. He’s never thought about it before. _Shit_.

He’s behaved like a proper dickhead.

Vince stands, he walks toward Howard like he’s worried he’ll run off. “Hey,” he says, and he says it as gently as he can. He reaches for Howard’s hand, and Howard lets him take it. His eyes connect with Vince’s and there is something there, something that Vince can’t place, but he doesn’t want to try and place it in any case. Instead, he tugs Howard’s hand. Howard follows his direction, turns so that he and Vince are facing one another. Vince slides an arm around Howard’s side, up his back, and pulls him into an embrace.

Howard just about collapses into it, his head falls onto Vince’s shoulder and his hands grip the back of Vince’s jacket in a way that Vince knows isn’t precisely good for the fitted satin that it’s made from, but he doesn’t care. He gives Howard a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry I said something about Christmas,” he says against Howard’s skin, apologizing for all of it with the one thing that might draw a laugh out of him.

“S’alright,” Howard replies (his voice is muffled in Vince’s hair) (it sounds nice that way).

 _Howard._

Vince is getting distracted again.

Then he hears it. The creak of Naboo’s door. It’s a call to action as undeniable as a bugle on a field of battle. 

Vince springs out of Howard’s arms and takes several quick steps toward the hallway. He nearly collides with Bollo coming around the corner.

Vince grins, lays on the charm indelicately, “Hey, Bollo.”

“No,” Bollo says, he’s making his way toward the refrigerator.

Vince stands in front of it, “What do you mean, no?”

“Naboo says Bollo no talk to Vince.”

Vince looks back appealingly at Howard. Howard takes a second to understand, but then he says, “Oh, um, hello, Bollo. Looking... er... good there... mate?”

“No Howard either,” Bollo says.

“It’s not like he’ll know if you just have a quick word,” Vince pleads. “Listen, you know what I’m like. If you don’t tell me, I’ll be up half the night. I’ll be no good in the shop tomorrow. I’ll be a mess. Just...”

“Too dangerous,” Bollo says with finality. He puts his hand on Vince’s shoulder and gently (but very firmly) pushes him out of the way. Vince stumbles a little.

“Bollo!” he whines. He makes his eyes as big and pathetic as he can. He plays the only card that occurs to him, “It’s Christmas.”

Bollo wavers (Vince sees him crumbling like an overbaked gingerbread man) but then he shakes his head, “No. Not this time.” He takes his time gathering things out of the fridge. He stacks up plates and leftover takeaway on his arms like a professional waiter. It’s more food than Naboo eats in two years. More food than Bollo eats in a month.

Vince looks at Howard, begs him to see how interesting this whole situation is, entreats him to catch Vince’s fascination. Howard just looks away. 

Vince is on his own. “Feeling peckish?” he asks.

Bollo doesn’t reply. He hip-checks the door of the refrigerator and shuffles down the hall. 

Vince follows him, “I’ll get the door for you, yeah? It’s a lot to carry there, isn’t it?”

“Nice try,” says Naboo. He stands just outside his door like a sentry.

“All right, Naboo?” Vince says, he tries to keep it friendly and even.

Naboo gives him a look that is as flat as a sheet of paper on a laser-leveled Formica table. “Come on, Bollo,” he says. He holds the door open just _barely_ wide enough for Bollo to squeeze through (“Yum-yums,” some squeaky-voiced muppet of a _something_ coos) and then they’re both gone again.

Vince spins, wild with frustrated curiosity. He storms back into the kitchen, “Thanks a lot, Howard.”

“You’re welcome,” Howard says with a sincerity that knocks Vince flat.

“But—”

Howard interrupts him, “Clearly, whatever that is in there is not to be meddled with, Vince. You saw that man today. You saw that box. You heard Bollo. Too dangerous, he said. I, for one, have had enough of messing with forces that have nothing to do with us.”

“But—”

“Not this time. Can’t we just have a normal night? Just get something to eat, watch some telly. Something ordinary?”

Vince’s bones dance like he’s being piloted by a drunken puppeteer, “How can you want to watch television when there’s,” he gestures forcibly toward Naboo’s room, “ _that_ whatever-it-is just down the hall? How? Christ, I don’t understand you sometimes!” 

Howard flinches.

Vince bites his lip. He’s only just finished smoothing things out; he doesn’t want to fuck them up again. He softens his tone, “Don’t you want to know what it is? Even a little?”

Howard shrugs, “I suppose. But, we’re not going to get a look at it just because you’re losing your mind over it. You might just have to live with getting told no for once.”

“But—”

Howard steps forward, places a finger against Vince’s lips, “Shhh...” he says.

It shouldn’t work, whatever this is. But it does. Vince shuts up out of confusion. His brain restarts, “Did you shush me like—”

“Shhh...” Howard repeats.

Vince blinks; doesn’t speak. Howard puts his hand on Vince’s hip, his eyes darken, and _oh_ here we are again.

It’s a spiral. A gyre. A whirlpool. It consumes and overwhelms. It’s Howard standing so close. It’s his smell and his heat and his hand burning through the fabric of Vince’s trousers. It’s how much Vince _missed_ him all day. It’s all of him and all of everything else. 

Howard is probably right anyway. No good has ever come from messing with Naboo’s stuff, so why would it be any different this time, no matter what it is? Plus, Howard hasn’t removed his finger from Vince’s lips and Vince’s brain is segueing away from one problem and onto another.

Though, whatever it is that Naboo has got...

_Shut up, Vince._

Yeah, okay.

He opens his mouth and tilts his head so that his lips frame the sides of Howard’s finger. His tongue peeks out and he licks the underside with prurient intent. Howard visibly swallows as Vince trails his tongue across each joint of Howard’s finger, up to the tip, and slips it into his mouth. He sucks it down, knuckle after knuckle, thinking of what else he’d like to have in his mouth and letting Howard read that thought in his eyes.

The sofa is behind them and there’s a pretty good chance that Naboo and Bollo are fully occupied for the night. How quiet can Howard be? Will he be too quiet or just _not_ quiet enough that maybe, just maybe, this time...

Vince slides back up Howard’s finger. It pops out of his mouth. They just stare at one another for a moment, and then Vince grabs Howard by the hips and shoves him toward the sofa. He’s wanted some version of this since this morning, so he’s not in the least bit patient about working Howard’s belt loose, nor about tugging his trousers down, nor about getting his hand into Howard’s pants, where Howard hasn’t even had the chance to get half hard, but he will and Vince knows he will, so he proceeds apace.

He pushes Howard down so that his naked arse is on the sofa and slides to his knees between Howard’s thighs.

Howard looks uncertainly down the hall, “Vince,” he says (strangled and tortured) (he’s thinking again, those obnoxious Howard thoughts).

Vince places his finger against Howard’s lips. 

He’s staring death in the eye behind two inches of ice that’s melting down under summer heat. 

He grins. “Shhh...”

Howard’s face is a picture. It doesn’t know if it wants to keep looking nervous, if it wants to go irritated, or if it just wants to ease into compliance. Takes a minute, but Howard’s expression decides itself. Goes for unnamed option four: lustful abandon. 

_Yes, yes, and yes._

Vince leans forward and kisses him. His teeth pinch Howard’s lip, his tongue slides into his mouth. He keeps a hand on Howard’s cock, feels it pulsing to life in his grip. Howard grips him between his shoulder blades and tugs him closer. Vince’s prick is wiggling awake, shimmying from interested to insistent in seconds.

Vince licks and bites and teases; he sucks on Howard’s bottom lip and rakes it with his teeth, he hears Howard gasp as their tongues slide together and he gasps back; he does his best to swallow Howard whole. He teases his fingers across the underside of Howard’s cock, feathers it with light, gentle touches that grow firmer the harder Howard gets.

Vince breaks their kiss. He’s planning to go down on Howard but he looks up. Howard’s face is flushed, his lips are pinked and plumped. Howard is so beautiful like this. He’s just bloody gorgeous, and he hasn’t got any idea. Vince stares at him.

The sight of him (right now) is short-circuiting Vince’s brain. He suddenly wants to do absolutely _all of it_ , suck him, fuck him, eat him alive; but he can’t because life is cosmically unfair. He’s tearing himself apart with how much he wants and how much he’ll allow himself to have.

Howard glances down at him. Vince sees the question there (what’s wrong?) (nothing wrong at all) (it’s just too fucking _right_ ) and it reanimates him, forces him back into action. _Beautiful Howard_ he thinks just before he licks the inside of Howard’s thigh. He tastes the salt of Howard’s skin, smells the scent of his sweat, of his sex; he’s a sommelier letting his wine breathe before he drinks it. 

He’s tuning a guitar before he strums it. 

He’s going to play it so hard, that he’s going to need to smash it and set it on fire afterwards because it’s already going to be _destroyed_ when he’s finished.

He bites down, just at the crook of Howard’s thigh and his hip, not as hard as he wants (he has to actively fight the temptation to rip Howard’s flesh straight off his bones) but not as gentle as he should. Howard hisses (“Ah!”), Vince flattens his tongue against the bite, his blood hums because Howard is _his_ and the proof is in those reddened toothmarks, in the damp sheen his saliva leaves, in the gasped hitch in Howard’s breath.

Vince’s eyes flick up to Howard’s face. _Make me some fucking noise,_ he commands with his eyes (Vince is both god and goddess, doom and hope, fucking apocalyptic with power) before he lowers his face toward Howard’s prick. He braces his hands on Howard’s thighs, forces him still. Howard’s thighs bunch under his palms, while Vince breathes up the center line of his cock. He slides his nose up the shaft and down again so he can give Howard’s balls a good licking. 

Howard gasps, but he wants to hear Howard squeal. 

He replaces his tongue with his palm, leaves a wet track as he licks his way up to the top of Howard’s cock (there’s a bead of precum waiting for him there already) and he lets saliva drip out of his mouth onto the head of Howard’s prick before he slips it past his lips. Gentle, easy dips at first, to get everything nice and slippery. He plays with Howard’s balls and he feels them drawing up, getting tight.

He slides his free hand from Howard’s thigh and slips it up Howard’s shirt. Howard’s belly is a contentious area that Vince skirts around. Howard isn’t quite comfortable with being touched there, so Vince just ghosts his fingers over it and uses it as a road map to reach his final destination. Howard’s nipple is tight and hard, and as soon as Vince’s fingers find it, Howard makes a low, throaty moan. 

It’s too quiet by half (Vince wants him to shout) (but he _can’t_ or they’ll be caught) (scream, baby, scream) and Vince sucks Howard all the way down to the base of his cock, gags on it as it brushes the back of his throat. He works through it, cock-sucking champ he is. Does it again and again, repressing the reflex as best he can while he works Howard enthusiastically with his mouth.

He does not stop drawing circles around Howard’s areola with his thumb. His nipples are nearly as sensitive as his prick and playing with them makes Howard, well... 

He gasps, he pants, his hips arch up off the sofa; he’s got the wiggles from head to toe; dancing, writhing, wriggling out of his skin. He’s biting his own hand to shut himself up and Vince wants to rip his hand away (let it all out), but he doesn’t. Howard’s eyes are screwed shut and he looks like he’s going to go any second. Vince can’t help himself, his own hips thrust against the bottom of the sofa, against anything they can get near. 

It’s not fucking enough, it’s never fucking enough. He stops sucking Howard’s cock, puts his hand on it instead (it’s slick and hot and so fucking hard) and he shoves Howard’s shirt up. Howard’s eyes flash wide with surprise before Vince sucks his nipple into his mouth. 

Howard makes a noise like he’s just realized that every one of the world’s problems can be solved with Vince’s mouth (he’s right, they can) and he grabs the back of Vince’s neck, his fingers tangle in Vince’s hair, he thrusts up into Vince’s fist (quick, shallow little pumps), and then he orgasms messily all over Vince’s hand.

Howard is quivering and oversensitive, but Vince is still hard as a heavy-metal power chord. It takes him a minute to stop pulling shakes out of Howard, to realize that Howard has given him everything that he’s got. Vince wants there to be more, he always does, but (for now) it’s done. He has to wait to have Howard again. 

He’s neglected himself to this point, but he’s not exactly going to forget the cripplingly tight erection in his drainpipes. It’s sharply delineated against the white denim he’s wearing. It looks obscenely big, like an anaconda in a goldfish bowl. He flattens his palm against it and presses it back into himself. 

He feels the rush of pressure, the pull, the scream, the plea, the _do something_. He’s looking at Howard spread out in front of him like a fucking centerfold. He hasn’t got the self-control to keep from rubbing himself with a sudden and frenetic energy (like an Eric Carr drum-fill) because he hasn’t got anything right now except want.

Howard watches him wank himself through his trousers with half-lidded eyes. He’s enjoying the show, leaning back, reclined like he’s some spoiled pasha and Vince is his favorite dancing girl. He looks so smug, so satisfied. Vince takes immense pleasure in making Howard look like that; it’s almost enough, just that gaze running over him and the friction of Vince’s palm through his trousers. 

Oh, it’s very nearly enough. 

Vince’s eyes flutter, his hand shakes as he starts undoing his own buttons and then Howard seems to wake up. 

He sits up and pushes Vince’s hand out of the way. He rucks up Vince’s shirt, uses both hands to get Vince’s trousers unbuttoned and pulls them down. He takes Vince’s other hand (the one still covered in Howard’s semen) and sluices his fingers clean. It takes a moment for Vince to realize what Howard is going to do, but he gets there just a fraction of a second before Howard’s slickened fingers. He’s going to use his own spunk to jerk Vince off.

“Oh, shit, fuck, oh, Howard,” Vince says as soon as Howard’s big Northern spunk-slicked palm closes around him. He leans forward, and Howard pulls him closer while he leans back onto the sofa so that Vince is slightly on top of him.

They’re lined up with Vince slotted between Howard’s thighs, his hips are bracketed on either side by the warmth of Howard’s skin, his prick is in Howard’s hand and resting against his belly, Vince’s face nests against Howard’s neck and shoulder. Howard’s lips tickle Vince’s ear, “I want...” he whispers, softly, trailing off.

Howard is absolute shit at dirty talk. Doesn’t matter though.

Vince cannot take the thought that Howard might _want_ anything from him right now. His voice breaks around a moan that is nowhere near as quiet as it should be (he’ll be a little annoyed with himself if he’s the one who ends up getting them caught) (but not that much). 

Howard’s words have stalled. In lieu of, his lips find Vince’s and Vince crawls properly on top on him. He’s fucking Howard’s hand like it might evaporate, pretending that he’s inside Howard (fuck, does Howard want _that_ because)—

And, _oh, oh, oh, it’s magic, you know_ ; he comes thunderously (all over Howard’s soft, contentious belly). He grins through the heat pouring out of him, through his brains turning to scrambled eggs and getting scrubbed out of the pan with the edge of a spatula. He falls over Howard and kisses him for all he’s worth.

“Jesus. Fuck,” Vince says. He laughs and kisses Howard’s temple. 

It’s like a bomb has gone off. There is ringing in Vince’s ears that is fifty percent born of shock, fifty percent out of blood rushing back into the rest of his body (pretty much all of it had found its way to his prick a second ago). He’s stunned out of anything that isn’t— 

“Howard, Howard, Howard...” he whispers, tsking. He strokes Howard’s hair (it’s so soft, it feels like chinchilla fur), and nuzzles his face into it. It still smells like his shampoo, one of those cheap shop-brand shampoos that smell all chemical and miserable _normally_ , but in Howard’s hair, it smells like fucking ambrosia. He inhales the scent deeply. Howard’s shampoo and sex. Eat your heart out, Chanel No. 5.

Howard shifts underneath him and Vince comes back to his senses a little. He props himself up on his elbows. “You still want takeaway?” he asks, his voice shaky.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Howard says.

Howard orders while Vince cleans himself up and changes yet again. He puts on a pair of nice, silky pajama bottoms, and a hot-pink, tiger-striped t-shirt that doesn’t quite match them but fits his mood. They eat their curries sat next to one another in the kitchen, not saying a whole lot of anything. Howard talks a little about some boxset or other that he’s trying to track down. Vince tells him about the latest cock-up at Leroy’s copy center.

It’s nice.

They do not go anywhere near the ruined floor. 

Vince barely even thinks about Naboo’s mystery _whatever_.

When they’re done with supper, Howard switches on the telly and they watch twenty minutes of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ before Vince drops off (sex always makes him sleepy) (sex with Howard makes him feel like he’s just done an all-nighter at an underground rave) with his head on Howard’s shoulder and his arm around Howard’s waist. He’s snuggled into Howard’s side like a baby sloth when Howard shakes him awake so that they both can go to bed.

They pad down the hall in slippered feet. Howard pauses outside Vince’s door.

“G’night, Howard,” Vince says.

“Night, Vince.”

Howard turns, walks toward his own door. Something wants to jump off the tip of Vince’s tongue. An eager little paratrooper, gasping to get off the plane and put boots on the ground. It prances with tight anticipation. He bites the corner of his lip, “Hey, Howard?”

Howard turns toward him and whatever it was comes down with sudden acrophobia. He smiles, “See you in the morning, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Howard says.

They go to bed in separate rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite lines in _Gremlins_ is the Phoebe Cates line: "while some people are opening presents, other people are opening their wrists."
> 
> Basically, this whole fic happened so that I could have Howard say a version of that line. I heavily considered inserting the actual line rather than a paraphrase, but, much like my totally arbitrary decision to change the mogwai to bodmai, I went with a bastardized version instead.


	4. Chapter 4

Howard wakes punctually at seven. His internal clock is a fine-tuned thing. It beats his alarm by a good thirty seconds each morning. He switches off the alarm before it has a chance to buzz. Normally, this is Howard’s jazz time. He makes a cuppa and starts the day off with some Duke Ellington, or some Stan Getz, something cheerful to warm up his jazzy bones before he goes for the heavy bebop, or for the structural madness of Weather Report, but he’s on a different errand this morning.

He sneaks out of his door and looks down the daunting length of the hallway. He listens. All is silent in the flat.

Vince is doubtlessly still asleep. He’s a sleep camel. He’ll go without for days at a stretch and then he’ll sleep sixteen hours a night for a week. He’s in one of these restorative stages presently, so Howard doesn’t expect to see him until past well past ten.

Still, he edges past Vince’s door like he’s creeping past the cave of a yeti queen in heat. He can’t afford for Vince to wake up before he’s had a chance to hide his gift. It was a close call last night. He thought for sure that Vince would notice the rather obviously gift-wrapped parcel in the bag he’d brought in, but then Vince had thrown his strop, and Howard had been able to slip it under the counter while he wasn’t paying attention.

In spite of how the evening had turned out, which, for the record, was pretty much exactly how Howard would have wanted it to, he still feels a little cringe when he thinks of how Vince had turned on him when he first came home.

It’s so delicate, this thing between them. Vince could destroy it in a moment, could stamp it flat under one of his high-heeled boots at any second.

That’s the way it will go, if it goes. In spite of everything, in spite of the strops, the bickering, Vince’s disregard for his own personal safety, and his proclivity for goading Howard into precarious situations just for the fun of it, Howard doesn’t want to get off the carousel. He’s not built for thrills, but Vince doesn’t seem to know that. 

_Yet_ a small, malignant voice whispers just behind Howard’s ear.

The kitchen is cold, the heat registers aren’t entirely up to the task of keeping the whole flat warm, but it’ll get better after Howard has his tea and his breakfast. He stoops down to grab the small, flat box from where he stashed it the evening before. He tucks it into the pocket of his dressing gown, gives it a little pat.

He puts the kettle on and heads back to his room. 

He’s just at Naboo’s door when he hears it. A high, sustained F#. For a moment, he thinks it’s the kettle, improbably boiling already, but then he realizes that, firstly, it can’t be, and secondly, that the sound is coming from behind Naboo’s door.

Howard stops. The noise stops. He takes another step. The noise starts again, it cycles through a trilling series of notes that Howard recognizes as _opera_ of all bloody things. The Queen of the Night aria. His mouth wraps around a silent _what?_ and he goes back to Naboo’s door.

Goes without saying that no one in the flat listens to opera. Least of all Naboo, whose tastes run to psychedelic rock and ambient techno and not a whole lot else.

Howard wouldn’t even recognize it himself if it wasn’t for his Nana Moon. She’d hoped to convert him, once upon a time, to classical music. She’d started with Mahler, Stravinsky, and Phillip Glass before she moved on to Mozart, Brahms, and Saint-Saens, but it didn’t take.

He remembers a gingerbread-scented afternoon, Handel’s _Messiah_ playing in the background, his Nana’s hands in burgundy oven-mitts taking a bundt pan out of the oven. “What do you think, Howard?” she asks him. The memory is sweet until it goes sour in his mouth.

Howard shakes it away like a chill.

The singing (it can’t be anything else) continues. It’s pitched softly, like whatever is making the noise is trying to keep from being too loud, but it still wants to be heard. Howard listens until it finishes. The flat falls silent again.

He licks his lips, then whistles the first thing that pops into his head, a scrap of _Minnie the Moocher_. He stops and waits.

The voice gives him back the hi-de-hi-de-hi that Howard had just whistled for it.

Howard takes an eon to blink. 

Curiosity killed the cat. Knocked it dead, flat between the eyes. That’s what he tells himself, but he can’t make himself move. He crouches down, toward where it sounds like the high, little voice is coming from. “Ho-de-ho-de-ho,” Howard sings softly.

And there are consonants now, shaped into the song when he gets it back, “Ho-de-ho-de-ho.”

Yep. Okay. So, he sort of gets it now, Vince’s keenness. Whatever that is behind that door doesn’t sound like it could possibly, in any way, be dangerous. Dangerously cute, maybe, but deadly? Impossible. 

Howard looks up at the doorknob above his head. If he just twists it, he could maybe get a look. Just a small one. Just a little peek. Just enough to satisfy his curiosity. Something to tell Vince, maybe.

He’s reaching for the handle when the door opens.

Naboo glares down at him, “What you doing?”

“Nothing,” Howard says, gathering his hand back to himself lamely. “I just… dropped something.”

“On my door handle?” Naboo asks, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“No. Just, using the door to help myself up is all.”

“Right,” Naboo says, “well, go on, then. Clear off, yeah?”

Howard stands awkwardly. He knows for a fact that he has more than a foot of height on Naboo, but he feels small under the shaman’s unamused eye. Howard is fully prepared to slink off, but then the voice sings it again, “Ho-de-ho-de-ho.”

Howard’s attention snaps back to the door and he sees just the barest glimpse of pink, bat-like ear at Naboo’s ankle.

“What...?” Howard asks, completely incapable of forming the rest of the question in his excitement.

Naboo kicks out with his foot, not roughly, but enough to push aside whatever it is that is trying to get past him, to get to Howard in the hall. He shuts his door with authority.

Howard stands agape, puzzled, enticed, and completely frozen in place.

“Piss off!” Naboo shouts, his voice only slightly dampened by the door.

Howard goes, but he doesn’t go to his room. He goes to Vince’s instead.

Vince is sleeping in the center of his bed, in the middle of a nest of pillows piled on both sides of him. He’s curled into one, holding it with both arms, his black hair fanning out like dark fireworks against a fuchsia sky. Howard’s heart swells, a feeling builds, until it cries out like the chorus in Nat King Cole’s version of _O Holy Night_.

 _Fall on your knees, O, Hear the angel voices…_ and Howard briefly ponders divine nights in a less than religious sense before he remembers that _shit, balls, arse,_ he’s brought Vince’s present with him into this room, where Vince is; that he’s wandered directly into the proverbial yeti’s den with his dick out in his excitement.

Vince is asleep and Howard thinks he can creep back out, but then Vince stirs. His eyes blink open like the flicker of a cinema screen. Howard is caught straight away, like Vince has been lying in wait for this moment before coming awake, just so Howard would be the first thing he sees, which is a ridiculous notion that shouldn’t even occur to him, but it does. After all, who would want to see _him_ first thing in the morning?

No one.

Vince sits up a bit and takes Howard in with a saucy smile, “All right?” he asks. He does that _thing_ with his tongue and his teeth, that little flick of incisor and canine, that looks predatory and playful all at once. He clearly thinks that Howard has snuck in for a morning shag.

They’ve never done that before. Is that even allowed?

When Naboo is home, their rooms are off-limits. It’s an unspoken rule. Roommates at home means no sex in the flat. But then the sofa last night wasn’t exactly up to that code, was it? Some would say that it went rather flagrantly against it. Before that, though, it’s always been the shop storage cupboard or nowhere if Naboo and Bollo are in.

That Vince is so obviously interested testing the limits of their tacit boundaries shouldn’t really come as a surprise, except it is a surprise, because he’s been trying so hard to keep them a secret.

Hasn’t he?

Vince peels his blankets back in invitation. His t-shirt has ridden up in the night and Howard sees a glimpse of pale, flat stomach, a sneak-preview of the gorgeous, dark fairy-trail of hair that snakes down his abdomen and terminates in the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

And, of course, the tell-tale half-pitched tent of Vince’s cock rising like a leviathan that wants slaying. 

Thing is, Howard knows exactly what Vince looks like naked, and you might think that would help him resist fantasizing about seeing him naked again, but it doesn’t. It just slaps his imagination into overdrive, gives the thoughts more and better detail. He thinks of eight different ways he could take (or be taken by) Vince in no more than the time it takes for his eyes to dart over the length of his half-hidden body.

Howard’s cock twitches, gets ready for the game.

When Howard looks back at Vince’s face, he can tell that Vince was watching him look, that he likes it when Howard looks at him and wants him. 

He’s such a vain little titbox, but he’s a vain little titbox for a reason. He’s sex packed up into a comestible suitcase and served hot like a Christmas pudding. He’s a buffet of carnal delights and he’s laid out for Howard with extra gravy.

He’s the ultimate temptation.

But Howard has a box in his pocket, and, if he goes over there, Vince is going to find it, quick smart. Anyway, he didn’t come in here for sex because, again, _that’s not allowed_. He came in here because—

“I saw it,” he forces himself to spit out.

Vince looks at him in confusion, “What?”

“I saw _it_ ,” he repeats.

Vince lets his blankets drop back over him, “What’re you on about?”

“The thing, I saw the thing. The… Naboo’s _thing_.”

“Howard, that’s gross. Don’t go telling me about how you’ve peeped on Naboo. Jesus, I hope you didn’t do that on purpose. That is _well_ out of order.”

Howard shakes his head violently, “No, Vince. I didn’t see…” he says, fluttering his hand, “I saw the, you know, the… whatever it is he’s got in his room. That thing.”

Vince sits up further, his blankets slide down into his lap, “What was it?” he asks, delighted.

“I dunno. I didn’t get a proper look at it, but it’s definitely got,” Howard puts his hands to the sides of his head and pantomimes large, flappy ears, “like bat-ears, or something. And it sings.”

“I know!” Vince says. “It was rattling on last night when I came upstairs. You heard it?”

“Yeah. It did a song with me. Like, I did a bit, then it did a bit back. It talks, too, I think.”

“Yeah, it does!” Vince confirms.

“Why didn’t you—”

“You weren’t interested.”

Howard winces, “Yeah, sorry about that. Might’ve been a bit… dismissive.”

“Whatever. It’s fine,” Vince absolves him in a flash. He pauses and chews on his lip, ruffles up the back of his hair before he says, “They’ve just got it loose in there?” 

“Seems like it.” 

“Well, how bad can it be, then?” Vince asks, rhetorically.

“It sounded, cute-like,” Howard says, aware that he’s fanning the flames.

They don’t have pets (beyond, perhaps, Bollo, if one is to be ungenerous) but Vince loves animals of all types. He always has. He wasn’t such an awkward fit back in the zoo days, after all. In spite of his sartorial delicacy, he’s always the first to pet a friendly dog in the park or pick up a stray cat to give it a pat and a bit of fish. The thought of a cute animal that he can’t see is probably enough to drive him straight round the twist. 

Howard sees it in his eyes, how desperately he wants to know what it is.

If Howard could just get him a look, one little look… the box that’s nestled in his pocket would just be a bonus. He’d go from being a shit boyfriend to being an ace boyfriend in a skip. How much could one look hurt?

Even Howard can’t imagine that it could be that damaging. The thing didn’t even look like it could possibly be more than a foot tall. “I’ll sort it out,” he says.

Vince laughs, “What do you mean you’ll sort it out?”

“I’ll figure out something. I’ll help you get, you know, a peek, anyway.”

“You will?” Vince asks. His smile goes artless and goofy, his eyes are wide and innocent. _Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus_. Howard’s heart lurches.

“Yeah. Naboo can’t keep to his room all day. He’s got to come out, and… between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Vince grins, adoration pours off him like smoke off dry ice. It’s almost thick enough for Howard to touch. It’s like getting stoned, how it nestles itself between Howard’s eyes with languid content. It’s too-rare, and too-craved. This is the closest thing he has to utterly indisputable evidence that Vince maybe, just maybe, very nearly, might actually feel more for him than just a mere liking. That maybe all of this is real. He’d do anything for the incontrovertible proof of it.

Anything at all.

“C’mere, Howard,” Vince says. He’s playing with his hair, winding some of it around his finger and tugging it straight. First thing in the morning, it’s a wild mess. Howard feels the sense memory of that hair running through his fingers and he wants to touch it again. Vince looks up his lashes at Howard and Howard can barely breathe. 

It’s like he’s been chosen out of the audience to come up on stage with a magician for a magic trick. The spotlight finds him, the magician’s clever fingers beckon, the rest of the crowd watches him with jealous eyes. _Me?_ he thinks, every time. He takes a half-step toward Vince, summoned by a call stronger than reason.

The call is low and deep.

_Come with us now on a journey…_

Howard is only saved by the tea kettle’s scream. It shatters through the illusion like a hammer through glass. He looks apologetically at Vince’s door. “I’ve got…” he says, points over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Right, yeah,” Vince says, sounding a little disappointed.

“Anyway, Naboo and Bollo,” Howard says, in case, somehow Vince has forgotten them. These are Vince’s rules, anyway, aren’t they? If he’s the one who’s made them up, he should at least be willing to follow them.

That Howard is only following them in this particular instance for an entirely unrelated reason need not be mentioned.

“No, yeah,” Vince agrees, picking at a bit of embroidery on the pillow next to him. “Hey, make me a cup?”

“Sure,” Howard says. He smiles at Vince. Vince smiles back, but it’s not the radiant smile of moments ago. It’s the sun gone in behind a wispy cloud, peeking out through some haze.

Howard doesn’t know if he’s misstepped again, or if he’s just imagining it, but either way, the kettle needs his attention. He shuts the door on Vince’s room and goes back to the kitchen. 

He makes a cup of tea for each of them. Howard takes earl grey with a wedge of lemon, no cream, no sugar. He makes Vince a chai, the slightly sweet, spicy aroma wafts through the flat like perfume. Howard drops two teaspoons of sugar into it and gives it a stir. He puts the cup on the counter and watches the steam rise out of it.

He holds his own cup in his hands. The heat radiates into his fingers and he taps the edge of it, thinking. Suddenly, he has a moment of inspiration.

He pours a third cup, makes a strong black tea. He makes toast too, two slices with Nutella and bananas. He sets the offering of tea and toast on the end of the counter and waits.

The final bauble in Howard’s lure emerges from his room wrapped in a kimono with fluffy slippers on his feet. Vince sees the tea and toast and gives Howard a look. Howard shrugs. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained, sir._

Without saying anything, they each know the plan of attack. Naboo is a fortress, unassailable by any charms that are not mind-altering. Bollo, though. Bollo’s weakness is much easier, cheaper, and more legal to procure.

He hands Vince his chai, “Early for you, isn’t it?” he says, louder than he might normally, “‘Satan’s ball crease’, isn’t that what you call any hour before noon?”

“Get stuffed,” Vince says, in the same, slightly loud, showman-y voice, “I happen to be up at this time of day all the time.”

“Only when you’re using it as bedtime.”

“Whatever,” Vince says. He takes a sip of his tea, “What do you do with your extra time in the morning? Just some jazzy warmups and tidying. ‘oooh, got to keep my room cleaner than Joan Crawford’s tits or I’ll break out in stress hives’, that’s you. I’ll take late nights and bed in the morning, thanks.”

“At least you won’t be late for work today,” Howard says. The whole conversation is pitched like an old-timey vaudeville show. They aren’t shouting, but they’re _projecting_ just enough that someone with ears more sensitive than a normal human’s could probably hear every word.

Vince pulls a face, “Why do we have to work today, anyway? Not usually open on Mondays, are we?”

“Naboo wants us open for last minute holiday shoppers, Vince,” he says, loading two more slices of bread into the toaster, “We have to man the good ship Nabootique as faithfully as any navymen on the open seas. We have to watch for customers as Ahab watched for his white whale and be ready to strike, to close in on them at a moment’s notice, like Quint in _Jaws_. Yes, sir.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Duty and honor, sir. Duty and honor to the shop. A hard day’s work, on the open seas of commerce.” Howard can practically hear the clang of a ship’s bell somewhere in the distance.

Vince stares up at the ceiling, like he wants to find some patience up there before he looks at Howard again, “Can’t you do it by yourself?” he whinges, sounding as though it will actually _kill him_ if he has to work today.

“Here we go,” Howard says, wise to all of Vince’s tricks. “Trying to skive off. Suppose you’ll have a reason. Topshop having a holiday clearance?”

Vince hesitates to deliver his next line in their banter. He’s almost definitely wondering if Topshop might actually be running a sale on account of the holiday. He looks a little excited by the prospect. Howard gives him a meaningful glance, _focus up!_

Vince looks slightly embarrassed. He’s got the worn out, put-upon mask back in place in seconds, “I’m just tired, is all.” Even though no one but Howard is there to see it, he slouches listlessly against the counter, swoons like he’s going to need smelling salts to revive him. He cups his jaw with his hand like his head is a barely supportable weight.

“You?” Howard asks, incredulous. “You don’t get tired. You run on sugar and sunshine. Not sleep.”

“I get tired,” he says, peering up at Howard through his fringe. “I couldn’t sleep all night.” His voice squeaks, he hits the word ‘night’ like it’s got two syllables, like he really is exhausted and his accent is slipping into the gutter because of it. 

Howard wants to kiss him full on the mouth. His tricky little minx. Vince gives him a smile from within the dark cavern his hair is forming over his face; he knows precisely what Howard is thinking.

A floorboard creaks down the hall and Vince slumps; his face goes slack, vaguely pained. Howard tweaks an eyebrow at him and reaches for one of his back issues of _Global Explorer_. “Not my problem, Vince. Naboo makes the rules, little man. We just follow them,” he says as he snaps it open.

Bollo shuffles into the kitchen. Howard acknowledges him with a glance and then leans back against the counter with the magazine open. He says nothing.

Vince is quiet too. He keeps his head down until Bollo picks up his mug. The china clinks and Vince shambles up to his elbows, “All right, Bollo?” he asks with a heavy sigh.

“Vince,” Bollo says. He sees the tea and toast. Howard sees Bollo peeking at him out of the corner of his eye, but then he refocuses on Vince. 

As if on cue, the toaster pops. Vince rolls off his chair and drags himself over to it like he’s made out of full bin-bags. He fumbles with the lid of the Nutella jar and spreads an (un)healthy quantity across a single slice of toast and takes a bite. Bollo watches the whole performance like a fourteen-year-old girl watching a newborn foal take its first steps. _House_ , Howard thinks with a microscopic smile.

“Sleep alright?” Bollo asks.

“Not really,” Vince sighs.

“Vince,” Bollo says, cautiously, remorsefully.

Vince holds a hand up, forestalls him. “S’fine, Bollo. Really. I get it. Mates are mates, right? But Naboo’s the boss, isn’t he?” 

It’s the right thing to say, the right thing to do. Howard feels like he’s watching a choreographed dance, it’s so beautiful.

“Bollo have bad night too,” the gorilla confides. “No take shower, no get to watch _QI_. Just quiet all night.”

“Sorry, Bollo,” Vince says. He ruffles the fur on the gorilla’s shoulder. 

Bollo grunts in agreement, gives a short, sharp nod. He picks up the plate of toast. There is a moment when Howard thinks their ploy has failed, a fraction of a second when he thinks that Bollo is going to let them down, but Bollo stops.

“It not so great anyway.”

If Vince and Howard were speaking louder than normal before, it’s the opposite now. Bollo’s voice is soft, confidential. Vince mimics his tone as he leans a little closer to the gorilla, “What’s not?”

“The bodmai.”

Vince is all innocence and wonder as he says, “Never heard of that, what is it?”

“Little creature,” Bollo replies, floating his hand above the counter at an illustrative height, maybe a little less than a foot high. “Brown and white fur, big pink ears. Noisy. Lot of rules for strange little pet.”

“Rules? What kind of rules?” Howard asks, unable to resist intruding at the mention of rules, even if it would be better if he kept quiet.

Bollo shrugs, “No get wet, no bright light, no feed after midnight.”

The radiator clanks, the hiss of steam is audible in the silence that follows. 

It lasts for all of five seconds before Vince tilts his head to the side. He looks confused. “Well, when can you start feeding him again?”

“What you mean?”

“You can’t feed him after midnight, yeah? Isn’t every time that isn’t midnight sort of after midnight? Like, right now? We’ve gone after midnight, haven’t we? So, shouldn’t there be like no food between midnight and six A.M. or something?”

Bollo shakes his head, “Bollo don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t you know? Seems important.”

“Bollo no make rules.”

“Can it eat right now or not?” Vince asks, apparently dead set on getting this straight.

“Dunno. Not Bollo’s area.”

Vince seems to consider this. “What about when it rains?”

“Eh?”

“Can’t get him wet, yeah? What about when it rains?”

“Keep inside.”

“Yeah, but what about before there were insides to keep him in? What about then?”

“Caves,” Bollo suggests with a shrug.

“But caves can be quite damp, can’t they? What if he gets into some water in there?” Vince’s natural curiosity combined with his loquaciousness, and his general lack of an attention span, have always combined to make him every teacher’s worst nightmare. The questions tumbling out him are typical of when something catches his fancy.

Howard well remembers the first time they met, the barrage of questions Vince pelted him with. They were just children then, of course, so it was a lot of questions about colors, dinosaurs, animals, shapes… actually, Vince still leads with those questions sometimes. Always seems to make people smile.

Point is, Vince will keep on like this forever if his interest is piqued.

Still, it’s difficult not to be a bit curious. 

Howard picks up on Vince’s thread, “How much water do you need to keep him away from? What about humid days?”

Vince nods toward Howard, “Yeah.”

“Don’t know.”

“What about snow?” Vince asks suddenly.

“Snow okay. Solid state.”

Vince smirks like he’s not sure that’s true, “But snow melts, doesn’t it?”

“So?”

Vince looks over to Howard _You want to take this one?_ “Well he’s a mammal?” Howard asks. Bollo nods a confirmation. “Makes his own body heat,” he states, factually. 

“Exactly,” Vince agrees, “Leave him kipping in a snowdrift too long and you’ve got liquid water, haven’t you?”

Bollo only answers them with a doleful expression, like he’s not quite sure how he ended up here and wishes that he could get away.

“And what about the light?” Vince asks.

“What about it?” Bollo asks.

“That seems like a bit of a toughie too,” Vince states. 

“Bollo don’t know. Bollo no ask questions.”

“What, not even a couple of follow-ups?” Vince demands, like this is impossible to comprehend.

Bollo shakes his head, “No.”

Vince makes a face that normally gets directed at Howard, his _what’s wrong with you?_ face. He rocks back on his heels, “What happens if you break the rules, then?”

“Don’t know.”

“Jesus, well, what do you know?”

“Only know direct sunlight would kill him.”

“Kill him?” Vince’s eyes go wide, his expression becomes fretful, but then he turns on Bollo, more irritated than before, “Kill him?” he repeats incredulously, “How did this thing ever survive five minutes in the wild?”

“Bollo no come up with concept, only rip off from film. You want answers, ask Chris Columbus,” he says, delivering this non-sequitur with finality. He eats his toast in silence, and nothing but the sounds of chewing and lip-smacking fill the flat for a few minutes. Vince is deep in contemplation. Howard pretends to read his magazine, but he imagines his thoughts are racing almost as much as Vince’s.

It seems impossible that he’s never even heard a rumor of a creature such as this one, but then, he supposes there are all sorts of animals, even now, as yet unknown to science. This one just seems more improbable than most.

He has a brief fantasy of catching a photo of it, sending it in to the _Global Explorer_ and getting famous, but even if they do get a look at it, it sounds like flash photography would be strictly prohibited.

“Can I see him?” Vince asks eventually.

Bollo shakes his head, “Naboo say no. Too dangerous.”

“Naboo? What does he know? Sounds like, if anything, I’m more dangerous to it than it is to me. I just want a peek. I’ll come in completely dry, no torch, no food, _nothing_.” Vince smiles, shrinks himself down a bit _see how harmless I am?_ “Just a tiny peep?” he suggests.

Bollo growls, “Bollo under strict instructions—”

“Fuck your instructions,” Vince says warmly. He doesn’t quite _pout_ at Bollo, but the expression he aims at him definitely has a hint of targeted winsome appeal. Howard would fold if that expression were aimed at him. He’d fold like an origami artist. “Come on, Bollo. Please?”

Bollo thinks for a long moment. He looks at Vince, then looks at Howard. Howard offers him a reassuring smile. 

“Okay,” Bollo says at last. “Bollo try to put in word for you. Maybe Naboo come around. But Howard right out.”

“Why?” Vince asks at the same time Howard does himself.

“He clumsy like drunk water buffalo. Vince gentle like graceful crane. No hurt bodmai. Howard probably trample to death.”

Vince gives Howard a look that says, _he’s got you there_ which Howard takes umbrage at. “Who do you think made you that toast, you berk? Your tea? Think that was your graceful little crane, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Well it wasn’t. It was me.”

Bollo shakes his head, “Bollo no think so. Howard not know how to cut up bananas right. No have necessary coordination.”

“Yes, I do, sir. I’m extremely coordinated. I’m able to cut things straight and fine like a mandoline. I can slice veg so thin, it’ll give you a papercut, sir.”

“You slice like toddler with cricket bat,” Bollo pronounces. Vince snickers and hides his face in his hand. Bollo looks at him, “You come visit Bollo at noon?”

Vince nods once, all smiles, “Cheers, Bollo.”

The gorilla shuffles down the hall and leaves them alone.

“Unbelievable,” Howard says. “Thanks, by the way, Judas.”

“What?” Vince asks, still smirking.

“Didn’t want to jump in and defend me at all?”

“It was funny,” Vince insists with another titter.

“Funny to you, maybe.”

“Oh, come on, Howard. You’re not angry?” Vince asks.

“You could have at least _admitted—_ ” Howard begins, but he’s cut off by Vince’s lips landing on his. Howard’s mouth is already half open from the words he was trying to say, and Vince’s tongue finds its way in like a homing pigeon returning to roost. His voice dies in his throat, turns from words to a groan of sound. He feels Vince smiling into him. 

The bittersweet, slightly savory taste of chocolate and hazelnut is in the kiss. It tickles Howard’s tongue like a sweet. 

Vince always tastes, just a little, like sweets. The very best kind of sweets, too. The ones you aren’t supposed to have, the ones that your parents hid up in a high cupboard to keep away from you, the ones that you’d risk anything to get at just because you weren’t supposed to have them.

He doesn’t know how it’s possible that he’s this hungry for Vince’s kiss again already, but he is. He wraps his arms around Vince’s back, holds him near. Howard is a holder.

Vince, though. Vince is a tornado.

His fingers rake though Howard’s hair, his body presses tight against him, he’s pulling Howard’s face down, pulling him wherever he wants him, because Vince is undeniable when he wants to be. Howard can no more fight his pull than the moon can fight the pull of the earth. Howard Moon orbits Vince Noir like any obedient satellite; he’d drift away into space without Vince’s inescapable gravity. 

He nibbles Vince’s lip, hears the little huffs of sound that Vince makes; they’re so quiet, those noises. So quiet and _just for Howard_ , each one a soft, secret utterance of _yes, please, more, mine, Howard_. Howard hears the words that are not actually spoken like notes left out of a deconstructed chord. 

Vince grinds his hips up into Howard’s, and Howard can feel the solidifying length of Vince’s prick and a hard, sharp-edged corner pressing into his thigh and—

_Shit._

Vince has felt it too. He pulls away from Howard, smiling. His lashes are fanned over his cheeks like the shadow of fluttering wings before he looks up at him, “Got something in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Howard has something in his pocket, alright. Something Vince is not meant to know about _until later_. “No!” Howard yelps.

Bafflement steals over Vince’s features. Howard pushes him away and holds him at arm’s length. Howard forces a laugh, “Look at the time on that clock, eh?”

Vince looks over at the oven in a haze of confusion, “What, seven-forty-two?”

“Yep,” Howard says. He pats Vince on the shoulder, “Time to get going for old Howard Moon. Yessir.”

“Going? Where?”

“To my... place...” Howard wracks his brain, improvises wildly, “of workouts. My Jazzercise, you know. Got to get that in. Today.”

“I thought you quit that. You said they played Kenny G and Michael Bublé. Said if they weren’t going to play proper jazz, you couldn’t be arsed.”

Howard laughs, wonders why it is that Vince has perfect recall when he least wants him to. “No, found a new group. Just the classics. Hard bop all the way.”

“Oh,” Vince says. “Okay.”

Howard tries to step by him, but then Vince tilts his head and seems to be adding something up. “Howard?” he says.

“Gotta go!” Howard insists. He bustles quickly down the hall and into his room. A narrow escape, that, he thinks as he tucks Vince’s present away in his dresser. Very narrow indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

Vince isn’t stupid. Well, he is a _bit_ stupid. He just hasn’t got a lot of space in his head, is all. It’s pretty confusing in there. A lot happens (all at once) in Vince’s head. 

It’s a lot like Piccadilly Circus. Lots of flashing lights and people walking in and out of frame and things like sparkly handbags catching his attention when he’s trying to think about something that isn’t sparkly handbags and a whole lot of noise pummeling into him from all sides _all the time_ (and not even noise that makes sense) (random squeals of tire) (snatches of old conversation) (the throaty calls of jungle birds) (beats normally buried so deep in music that he doesn’t even know what song they’re from) which doesn’t help when it comes to putting things in order. It’s like sorting a mixed tray of beads with twenty drunk, colorblind capuchins trying to help. 

Point is, he knows that he’s not exactly a bloody genius, but he’d have to be a whole lot thicker than he is to not realize exactly what Howard is playing at.

He’s got him a present. That’s what’s got him worked up and pretending to go to a Jazzercise class that Vince knows for a fact he hasn’t been attending. Even if he had started a new class, there’s no way he’d be going in the morning. In spite of the lies he tells himself, Howard is no more a morning person than Vince. He might get up earlier, but he doesn’t actually do anything until he’s had a good two hours of jazz music, tea, and the morning paper, so he might as well stay abed like Vince does and have a proper lie-in.

And now Howard’s long absence the day before and the way he edged past Vince makes a lot more sense too, and frames it in a completely different light.

He can’t decide if he thinks it’s sweet that Howard’s gone and got him a gift, if he’s insulted because Howard thinks he’s too thick to figure it out, or just plain excited because (no secret here) Vince loves presents. It’s a little of all three.

It’s mainly (he realizes, since he can’t stop smiling) column A and column C. 

The whole morning has him floating. Howard in his room, first thing (he wishes he had actually slept there), the way they played Bollo together (the old double act back in action), the kiss in the kitchen that led to the discovery of his present; all of it. He feels like the bubbles in a fizzy drink; like he’s popping and snapping and drifting upwards and absolutely bursting with jubilation. He’s just so _happy_. He’s sparkling, is what he’s doing. 

He washes, shaves, moisturizes and blows a kiss at his own reflection before he goes back in his room to pick out his outfit. Some days, it takes him an hour to choose what feels right. Today, it takes him no more than a single stroll down the length of his clothing racks. 

He picks out a blue button down (it’s got silver stars going up the middle on either side of the rhinestone buttons), red trousers with black piping, silver boots, and a red bandanna that he ties around his throat like a wild-west bandit’s mask. He looks half sexy-cowboy, half sexy-rock-groupie. Mainly, he just looks sexy. He skips back into the bathroom and does his hair, tames it into sleek, full waves (Howard, he knows, likes when Vince’s hair is touchable) (Vince _definitely_ wants Howard to be able to touch it today).

He finishes the whole look with some eyeliner and a hint of clear, peppermint lip gloss that makes his lips tingle. He looks good (not an unusual event) (to be honest, he usually does), but he feels extra-good as he glances over his shoulder, tosses his hair (checks to see how it moves), spins around, and pulls pouty faces at himself in the mirror.

Howard, the bodmai (whatever that is) (he can’t wait to find out), even the tea and toast he had that morning. It’s all going well; it’s all ticking along perfectly. How could he possibly be unhappy today? Today is genius, and it’s only just begun.

He goes down to the shop (Howard still isn’t back from fake Jazzercise) and then pops back upstairs. He rolls up a carpet from his room and brings it back with him. He lays it over the stain with a flourish.

Howard can do whatever he wants with it later; for now, Vince is going with his original solution. He switches on the radio and (since no one is there to watch him) he dances along to _Rocking Around the Christmas Tree_ , then sings a little of _Dominic the Donkey_ while he adjusts everything to accommodate the rug. He’s so happy, he doesn’t even turn off _Wonderful Christmastime_ (hated or not, it isn’t really Christmas until he’s heard it at least once the whole way through) when it comes on as he takes out the rest of the Christmas village and cleans it of dust

Vince is crouched over the village, installing it at the base of the shop window when he hears the door ping. He hasn’t opened the shop yet (the shutters are still closed and all) so he expects to see Howard, but it’s not Howard.

There’s a split second where he fears it might be Kyle again (there’s the same sort of sink-hole feeling in the room), back to claim the bodmai and take it away before Vince gets a chance to see it, but it’s not him either. It’s someone new.

She’s a woman, beautiful and ageless in the way that mountains are beautiful and ageless. Her face is perfectly symmetrical and flawless (not even the suggestion of a wrinkle anywhere on it) but it’s immediately apparent that she’s _well_ old. She isn’t bent or stooped or anything like that; she’s just… unhurried. Like she’s had millennia and will have a jolly good deal more millennia, like time is a vague inconvenience, like death isn’t an inevitability. 

She fixes him in her eyes and they’re even worse than solid black coals, for all of their proper pupils, irises, and whites. They are just… unexplainably _heavy_. 

“You. Girl,” she spits, (she says ‘girl’ like ‘gell’, like her accent isn’t just posh, but also two hundred years out of fashion) “where is the shaman Naboo?”

“Uh, upstairs,” Vince says.

Her eyes crawl toward the stairs like ten-ton slugs. Her lips quirk in a sort of smile, the sort of smile that wolves give fat, wounded rabbits.

“His familiar,” she asks (now her voice is doing the whole wolf-rabbit smile and it is _alarming_ how much menace she’s got in it) (more menace than a chavvy wolverine with a drawn switchblade and a fistful of thumbtacks) “he is here too?”

“Dunno,” Vince says instinctually, because, whatever else is happening here, it is very much apparent that she wants to do something (bad) to Bollo.

This time, her stare returns to him faster than a striking snake. It slams into him with the force of a juggernaut going 90. It takes everything Vince has not to jump through the plate glass window (and closed shutter) to get away from it. 

She takes a step toward him, “You hide him?”

Vince inches further back so that he bumps into the glass, leaves himself nowhere to run. She looks amused to have cowed him so. Vince forces himself to stand straight and he shakes his head. The best he can manage.

Her eyes narrow to knife-slits, “You do.”

“I could pop up and check if he’s home if you like?” he offers with as much composure as he can muster.

She doesn’t do anything except bare her teeth at him. They’re flat, white, perfect teeth, like a picket fence outside a quaint rowhouse. Somehow, it’s worse than if they were fangs, or pins, or even multiple rows of daggers. This is a person who, when she eats you alive, cuts you up first.

“I’ll just…” he pinches up his face (an illustrative little squint) and points at the stairs. He doesn’t want to look at her and he doesn’t want to turn his back, so he sidles along the wall and up the stairs in an awkward, crablike shuffle. It’s a good job no one sees him doing that either, because it is the complete opposite of cool.

He dashes to Naboo’s door and pounds on it, keeping one eye on the stairs and praying the whole while that she won’t follow. “Naboo,” he says.

“Go away,” Naboo says from inside his room. “I’m not playing about. I heard you this morning, trying to get to Bo—”

“Bollywood,” Vince says over him, fearing that if _she_ (she’s already an italicized _she_ in his head) hears Bollo’s name, _she_ will be up here in a shot, “Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. It’s um… not me, though. See, there is… _someone_ in the shop for you.”

“Who is it?” Naboo asks.

“Didn’t catch a name.”

There is a long pause from behind the door (funnily enough, the wood glares back at Vince with about as much emotive force as Naboo) (it’s not that funny) (but when you’re terrified, everything is hysterical) before Naboo says, “Piss off.”

“No, no, Naboo. I’m serious. There’s a,” Vince hesitates before he can make himself say, “woman,” hesitates again, as though his brain rebels at the idea of calling _her_ anything half so mortal as a mere woman (she’s an eldritch horror) (a lurid phantasm made flesh), “and she’s looking for you and um…” he leans closer to the door, whispers up against the wood, “Bollo.”

There is a different kind of pause. The kind of pause that happens when a pan full of gravy gets set on the edge of the stove and you can see it tipping over for a hundred futile years before it falls with a damp splatter to the floor.

Naboo says, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Vince agrees, because now he’s getting it. 

The shaman is in the hall. Vince isn’t sure if he opened his door or not. His overworked, overstressed brain insists that he must have, but his eyes tell him a different story. Naboo puts his hand on Vince’s shoulder, “Don’t say a word, yeah?”

“Course not,” Vince agrees, though Naboo doesn’t clarify what he shouldn’t say a word about. Vince is just taking it as a carte blanche no talking recommendation, and he’s wholly behind it. He does say, “You have some scary fucking friends, you know that?”

“ _She’s_ ,” (and the italics are in Naboo’s _voice_ too; _she_ must be a proper nightmare) “not a friend.”

Vince follows Naboo downstairs (for some fucking reason) (it only occurs to him when he sets both his feet on the shop floor that he could have stayed upstairs and well away from whatever danger _she_ presents) and watches Naboo square off with the terrifying, timeless witch on their door.

“Naboo,” she says, her eyes flick to Vince before they flick away again (it’s like having a rhino jump on and off your chest in a crushing leap), “ever you keep the most unusual company.”

“Yeah,” he replies, with a glance toward Vince. “What’s this all about?”

Vince likes that about Naboo. He just gets down to business, doesn’t muck about with pleasantries. Really admirable stuff.

Of course, the witch looks like it cheeses her right the fuck off, so...

“You know what this is about,” she says, and her voice is like cold thunder. The sound of it cuts clear through Vince like an icicle down his back. 

The lights in the shop flicker, shadows seem to gather. There is a quiet rumble as she takes something from her pocket and then she casts it angrily at the floor. Vince recoils instinctually, expecting a column of flame to erupt, or a toothy pit to open in the floor, or an interdimensional portal to rip the air and disgorge a tentacled monster, but she’s only gone and thrown a piece of paper. It flutters as Naboo approaches it. He picks it up and examines it. He sighs.

Vince cranes to get a look at whatever it is, gets a glimpse of what appears to be a list of songs. _Spider Lovin’_ is circled in angry red biro.

“Your familiar,” she says, her voice sharp as pins, “played a song on my no-play list at my birthday party. I demand recompense!” 

Naboo makes a face, “Look at this writing, can’t read half of it.”

“You dare insult my penmanship?” she spits.

“Just saying if it was typed, it probably wouldn’t ‘ve happened.”

“I don’t have a typewriter!”

“Typewriter?” Naboo asks. “How about a word processor?” There’s a suggestion of taking the piss in his voice, a little lilt that’s almost a smile. Vince is still too overwhelmed to do anything but stand by in silent respect, but he doesn’t miss the comment’s effect on the witch. She goes from cheesed off to incensed.

“Whatever!” she snarls, “I don’t have one.”

“Well, you should get one,” Naboo sasses. She stares at him. He sighs then says, “It was just an accident, yeah?”

“Accident or no, he must be punished.”

“Bollo said it was a request.”

“I care not for your hollow excuses! Typewritten or not, request or not, it was on my _list_. It never should have been played. I will see him to the gates of hell for such impertinence!” she shrieks, her voice rising in volume and force. The trinkets in the shop shake, the clothes on the rack tremble in the wind, the lights flare and blink out.

“Yeah, alright,” Naboo says, “cool your boots.”

“You have been summoned.” She raises her arms above her head, her palms are upturned like she’s gripping fat satsumas, lightning strikes and irradiates her hands (alright, it doesn’t, but to be fair, it really _should do_ ) before she advances toward him, “You and your familiar are to appear before the Board of Shamen. I will have justice!”

“When’s that then?” Naboo asks.

“Immediately!”

Naboo doesn’t do anything, but, somehow, something about him changes. He seems reluctant. “I’ve actually got something on at the mo’. Can’t really get away.”

“You will appear,” she says with finality. “Willing, unwilling, it matters not.” Her arm extends like slow-rolling fog. She points at him, malevolence sparking in her eyes. “The spell has been cast,” she rasps.

“Spell?” Naboo asks and then **_pop, flash_** he’s gone. She’s gone too. The list Naboo was holding drifts to the floor. Vince is all alone in the dark shop.

“Shit off,” he says to no one, unable to believe what he’s just seen. 

His first thought is that he should find some way to help Naboo (and Bollo), but how he’d do that he’s got no idea. Then he remembers that the bodmai is upstairs (unattended?) and very possibly in need of someone to look after it. Plus, there’s the shop and all. And, really, he’s got no way to get to wherever Naboo has gone and no way to even know where that is (unless Naboo crystal balls him or channels himself through someone or something) so he hasn’t got a lot of options.

He’ll run it all by Howard as soon as he gets home, and he’ll definitely know what they should do, but _for now_...

He glances at the stairs. Best to go and check, really. See if Bollo is home or if the spell worked on him too.

The weather is gloomy again, but Vince (in a bout of rare common sense that would do Howard proud) draws down the shades over the windows in case the bodmai slips out when he opens the door (whatever else, he doesn’t want to _kill_ anything) and then knocks on Naboo’s door.

No answer.

He puts his hand on the doorknob, turns it uncertainly, not completely sure what to expect.

Naboo’s room looks empty. It’s just the purple-curtained four-poster, the long strings of mirrored disks on the wall, the poster behind which he keeps his secret safe of spell books, and the dusty dresser with so many colored glass pipes on it that there’s barely enough room for the towering hookah which looms over them all like an mother goose over a nest of eggs. The room smells (faintly) of marijuana and spell components. The lamps are all covered in sheer scarves so that it’s even dreamier than usual. There is no sign of anything and it occurs to him that the bodmai might have been taken by the spell too.

Vince closes the door behind him. He turns in a full circle. He thinks.

Howard had said that he got the thing to sing with him, which seems like as good a way as any to discover it if it’s hiding. He hums a little of _Last Christmas_.

Something stirs under the covers of Naboo’s bed. Vince watches it as he continues to hum and walks closer toward it, with a sense of growing anticipation. He stops humming and the rustling intensifies. The lump that is the bodmai shifts, it starts crawling up toward the pillows. It seems to get stuck, it struggles, tangled up in the sheets. Its little voice starts singing back to him the melody it just heard and Vince walks carefully toward the bed and sits on the edge of it. 

He pulls back the covers (slowly) (gently) (easy does it) and—

It’s all ears. That’s Vince’s first impression. Ears and eyes and the sweetest little fucking face he’s ever seen. He tries to describe it to himself (in his head). Round, flat nose, amber eyes the size of pound coins, brown fur like a mask over those eyes, a white blaze up the center of its face, and _those ears_ ; large, pink, flappy, and the size of flat Cornettos, they twitch this way and that as the little creature peers up at him.

“Bodmai,” it says in a voice like sugar syrup. Vince is immediately, irretrievably in love.

“Hello,” he says to the bodmai. He extends a finger toward it and the bodmai takes it in its tiny hand, “I’m Vince. Have you got a name?”

“Bodmai,” it says again.

“No name?” Vince asks. 

The bodmai just looks up at him in confusion. It shuffles toward him, evidently drawn in by the rhinestones on his cuffs. It plucks at one and tilts it so that it sparkles. It coos appreciatively.

“Can I pick you up?” Vince asks it. It nods, so Vince scoops it into his arms and holds it like it’s a baby. He doesn’t know if it’s the sort of creature you can just pet or if he should ask. It’s clearly got more going on upstairs than your average cat, anyway, but it doesn’t speak like Bollo, and the language it uses isn’t quite the same language as regular animals. It’s like an entirely different thing, which, actually, makes sense given the bizarre rules Bollo had told them.

“You like music?” Vince asks it in lieu of petting.

The bodmai nods.

“You’ll love my mate...” (he stumbles over the word) “my...” (fumbles inadequately) “you’ll love Howard, when you meet him. He’s got loads of music. A lot of it is jazz, though, so, fair warning, it may not be your cup of tea. But he and I are in a band, and our stuff is pretty good.”

“Bodmai,” the bodmai says.

“Look, is it okay if I call you something? Give you a name? Just, seems depressing to call yourself what you are all the time. If I had to go round calling myself ‘human’ all the time, I’d be well depressed. Not all the same, are we? I reckon you’re not the same as the rest of the bodmai, wherever those are.”

The bodmai just looks up at him with its huge amber eyes, like Vince is something to bask in. “Gadget?” he asks it. “How’s that sound?”

“Ga-get,” it repeats, trying out the unfamiliar syllables. It smiles.

*****

Howard enters the shop. It’s dark, even the fairy lights are off. There’s a rug on the floor. It looks like Vince has been down and moved some things around, but it’s certainly not open, as it should be by now. Howard isn’t as disappointed as he expects to be. He chalks it up to being glad that he won’t have to rebalance the till.

He walks toward the stairs and his toe hits a piece of paper on the ground. He bends and picks it up. It’s a list of some type, but he can’t read it in the dark. He folds it into a tight square and puts it in his pocket before he continues on. He flips the light switch. Nothing happens.

A circuit has blown. Howard isn’t surprised. He’d told Vince that they had too much plugged in down here already but he would keep adding more fairy lights and, yep, there’s a Christmas village that’s been set up in the window and those damn 1940’s fire hazards lining the wall all the way to the back of the shop; Howard had thought he’d hidden them, but apparently not. They’re what must have done it. Of course, Vince doesn’t know where the electrical box is, even though Howard has shown him more than once just in case something like this should happen.

Howard sets his gym bag down on the counter and goes upstairs to grab a torch. The shades are drawn in the flat so it’s dark up here as well. The whole thing, actually, begins to strike him as a little odd and he starts to wonder if something has happened.

Then he hears it.

Vince’s voice, talking to something. In Naboo’s room.

He sounds quite pleased with himself, the little chirps on the other side of the door that apparently answer him make it clear why. He’s been allowed to see the bodmai.

Howard can guess how it probably happened. The instant he was out of the flat, Naboo and Bollo would have grabbed Vince and performed the meet and greets. _Oh, Vince, that stuff was just for Howard, come check it out_ yeah, they’d have had him up there in a flash, perfectly ready to leave Howard completely out of it yet again.

But then, why are the shades drawn? Why are the lights off downstairs?

Something has happened, but maybe nothing bad? Howard shakes his head, dismisses that thought as an impossibility. Things have been going too well for a while. Something is bound to have gone wrong.

He knocks on Naboo’s door, on the outside chance that the shaman, Bollo, Vince, and the bodmai actually are having a VIP party without him. It’s Vince who answers.

“Howard!” he says excitedly, “Come check this out!” he throws open the door and pulls him into the room. “Gadget,” he says, “this is Howard, the person I was telling you about.”

Howard, for a moment, thinks Vince has lost his mind, because he seems to be addressing a stuffed animal sitting on Naboo’s bed. Even with the glimpse of ear he caught earlier, it’s not recognizably alive to him (the snuggly, adorable creature looks entirely dreamed up) but then it moves and Howard realizes that it is, in fact, alive. Apparently, a real thing. 

And cute. 

Immediately, forcibly cute.

It’s a kitten crossed with a lemur with a little bit of guinea pig added in for spice.

There is no trace of Naboo or Bollo. And, while Howard was all for a well-supervised viewing of the strange little creature, Bollo’s ominous pronouncements and warnings echo in his brain. _Too dangerous_ he hears the gorilla say like he’s in the room. Only this thing in front of him looks about as dangerous as a pair of safety scissors. It’s nearly assaulting him with its harmlessness. 

It’s almost aggressively innocent. 

He can’t help the instant mistrust of the creature that falls over him like a damp flannel. Of course, he can’t. Look at the thing.

It’s too defenseless, too adorable, and it _knows_ it. He can see the knowledge burning in its eyes. It’s _up to something_. It has to be.

Where the hell are Naboo and Bollo anyway?

Something has gone badly wrong, and Howard is being sucked into the vortex of wrongness. He’s going straight down into the heart of darkness, right into the cask of amontillado. 

Why do these things always have to happen at Christmas? 

“Hey, there,” Howard says to Gadget anyway, because it’s obvious that Vince is delighted and wants Howard to be delighted too.

“Bodmai,” Gadget, says with a cheery whistle.

Howard smiles tightly. “Vince,” he says, “a word?”

Vince flashes him a look, _What’s wrong?_

_Nothing. Everything. Just, in the hall, please?_

Vince smiles, “Be right back,” he says to Gadget. He follows Howard out and Howard tugs the door closed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Howard spits.

“What?”

“In the room there, with the... this Gadget, or however he styles himself. Where’s Naboo? Where’s Bollo?”

Vince laughs, “Styles himself?” he rolls his eyes, his hips slide to one side. He’s amused. “It’s fine Howard. Well, actually, it might be going a bit bad for Bollo, but nothing we can do about that right now, so...”

“What happened?”

Vince tells him, to the best of his limited abilities, the events of the morning. It’s a bit of a jumble. There’s definitely a witch, though, and some sort of spell, there’s something about a birthday party that apparently figures in; none of it makes much sense, but Howard gets the gist.

Vince tells him everything in such a rush of enthusiasm, sprinkles in so many ‘I’m sure it’s fine, though’-s that, even if Howard doesn’t understand exactly what’s happened, he still _knows_ , deep in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones, with absolutely no room for doubt, that two things are true:

1\. Things _will not be fine_

2\. Howard can do absolutely nothing to prevent it

When Vince has finished, he’s just tickled.

_Our flatmates are in (mortal?) peril, but it’s okay because I’m hanging out with a suspiciously cute mini monster. Who knows what it’s capable of, or why it’s got everyone so freaked out. Doesn’t matter, though, right? La-de-da, life is great, woop-de-woo. Everything turns out just fine for me because I’m the magical Vince Noir, Sunshine Kid (tinkly wink sound effect)._

Howard wants to be happy, too. He wishes, just once, that he could borrow whatever rose colored glasses Vince looks at the world through, but he’s here on the ground while Vince is floating above him, and Howard can see the powerlines he’s drifting toward, oblivious. He’s duty bound to warn him.

It does seem a shame to rain on Vince’s parade, though, particularly in light of item two as listed above, but raining on parades is what Howard does on a semi-professional level. He’s only not made the jump to pro because there isn’t a professional parade-raining league to join up with. If there was, he’d be an all-pro, a hall-of-famer. He can’t help it anyway, like picking a scab, or scratching an itch, it’s impossible to ignore the impulse once it’s formed in his mind.

He _has_ to.

“Don’t get too excited,” he says, a warm-up to true parade-raining; an initial sally that Vince will rebuff, irrepressibly. Vince is at least as good at throwing parades in spite of rain as Howard is at delivering a proper downpour.

“I’m not excited,” Vince says, in plain denial of obvious fact, “I’m worried.” He seems to mean it for a moment, but then his lips twitch up, “I mean, but, it’s not all bad though, is it? Gadget is brilliant. You should hear him in there, singing away. I had him on some Alice Cooper a bit ago, sounded well cool.”

It’s as bad as Howard feared. Vince has obviously forgotten the dire warnings they were given and fallen victim to the charisma of the _thing_ in the other room, as easily as an Ebola victim succumbing to... Ebola. Howard shakes his head, “Yeah, but he’s not just a fun-time happy little nugget of joy, is he?”

Vince laughs, “What are you on about? Didn’t you see him?”

“I did, yes,” Howard says, thinking of how little he liked what he saw.

“And?”

“And, I’m just saying, let’s not jump to conclusions, alright?” he cautions. “Sure, he’s cute, sure he seems friendly, but—”

“But nothing, Howard!” Vince interjects with bewildered exasperation, “We know there’s rules, yeah? As long as we’re careful and we don’t get him wet, or whatever, it’ll be fine. He just wants to snuggle and sing and have snacks. He’s like a little Jerry Garcia without the heroin.”

“You’ve not fed him have you?” Howard asks, on high alert for any possible transgression.

“No,” Vince says, “Relax.” He puts his hand on Howard’s arm and rubs a small, soothing circle, “Calm down. Look, we’ll be careful, we won’t do anything Bollo told us not to and when he and Naboo get back, they’ll take over again.”

“There’s no guarantee that they will be back,” Howard points out, “It could go wrong for Bollo.”

“It won’t!”

“You can’t possibly know that, Vince. Nor can you know what that thing in there is actually capable of. I don’t trust it,” Howard says, “and neither should you.”

Vince rolls his eyes, “You are completely paranoid, you know that? You could have a million euros fall in your lap and you’d cry yourself into a corner, ‘why me, oh, a million euros? I must be cursed’,” he lisps, clutching his hands to his chest.

Howard fixes him with a look. Vince stops clowning. 

“If a million euros fell in my lap, yeah, I would be suspicious. I’d turn them in,” Howard says, somberly.

“Turn them in? To who?”

“The authorities, sir. That’s the proper procedure. That’s what you should do. Could be drugs money.”

“Drugs money?”

“Where else would a million mystery euros come from?”

“Come off it. You’d cry a bit, but then you’d have that old saxophone I’ve seen you staring at on eBay. I thought you were looking at porn, the way you were drooling over it. You had half a stiffy.”

“It’s signed by John Coltrane,” Howard says quickly, perhaps too quickly for a man who definitely did not have half a stiffy from looking at a saxophone. His eyes dart nervously sideways. 

Vince smirks, but he has the grace to look away, “Who?” he asks.

Howard doesn’t believe for a second that the name rings absolutely no bells. “John Coltrane,” he repeats. Vince just gives him back a blank expression. “Come on. You’ve seen the records in the shop! They say it’s the one he played _Lazy Bird_ on, if you had any idea how precious—”

“Whatever. Point is, you’d be clicking away, getting yourself some dusty old gimmer’s secondhand saxophone in a snap, not ringing up ‘the authorities’.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t found a million euros, have I? We’ve got to deal with whatever is in the next room, and we don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Oh, right, we’ll just ring up our other shaman friends, yeah? Have them pop by and help us out, shall we? Maybe Naboo’s got Kyle’s number in his diary. How about we ring him up and see if he minds stopping by the shop and picking Gadget up a few days early. Sure he’ll take that well. That what you want to do?”

Howard sighs, “No. I guess not.”

“Yeah, guess not,” Vince repeats, snottily. “We don’t have a whole lot of choices here. Until Naboo gets back, we’re it.”

“Alright,” Howard snaps. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, tries to calm himself down. “Alright. Yeah, fine. But don’t...”

“Don’t what?”

“I dunno, underestimate it or whatever.”

Vince fights the smile that slowly blooms into a full grin. He glances down at the floor and back up, like he’s really trying to keep himself from making his next comment, but it’s just too bloody good to let go. “Okay. I’ll properly estimate him. Take him down to Sotheby’s, get an appraiser to look at him, see what they think.”

“This isn’t time for jokes,” Howard says, his mouth a thin, impatient line.

“It’s always time for jokes,” Vince says. He looks up at Howard with those ridiculous eyes that sparkle with a full fireworks display of optimism. He takes Howard’s hand. “It’ll be _fine_ Howard, honestly. We’ll be together, yeah? The two of us can keep one of him out of trouble.”

It’s a barrage, a full-frontal assault of sanguine hope. Howard gives a nod that is as reluctant and unsure as a finger of sunshine peeking through steel grey clouds. He feels the fry up he had for breakfast leeching up his throat. He swallows it down.

“Nothing bad has to happen,” Vince says softly. He slides his hand up Howard’s arm, cups the back of his neck. His fingers tickle at Howard’s ear as he leans against him. He rests his head against Howard’s chest. “It can turn out alright, you know.”

Vince just holds him. They stand, quiet, in the hall. The bronco that bucks in Howard’s stomach grows gentler. It’ll still bolt if given a fright, but soft words and a handful of oats have started it toward domestication. Howard sighs. He accepts the inevitable.

“Okay,” he says at last. There isn’t anything else to say. Vince is right. There isn’t anything else they can do, they just have to make the best of what’s happening, even if it will go pear shaped. “Okay,” he repeats. “But we don’t let him out, we don’t let him have anything he’s not supposed to.”

Vince’s laugh is muffled against Howard’s chest, “Obviously.”

“Okay,” Howard says again, and this time, he means it a little more.


	6. Chapter 6

The woods are bloody fucking cold this time of year.

Naboo has never 100% understood the fascination with meeting out in an open forest with a jumble sale conference table set up like some sort of woodland model UN, but, here he is, standing next to Bollo, shivering his bollocks off and barely staving off a panic attack.

Cruleficent is making her case to Dennis. The case _for_ a hearing. There hasn’t been one actually set up. She just used a summoning spell to get all of them to the woods and then started arguing for one. Loudly. 

She’s going to get it. Naboo can see it in Dennis’ eyes. He’s as terrified of the old witch as everyone else. To be honest, if she didn’t get her hearing, she’d probably take matters into her own hands anyway and turn Bollo into a carpet. _Without_ magic.

So, it’s just a matter of time until it’s all settled. Then, at midnight, on the next full moon, the official hearing will be held. Naboo wishes Dennis would just hurry up and agree already. The conclusion is forgone. 

He absolutely doesn’t want to leave Vince alone with the bodmai any longer than he already has, because that is a disaster waiting to happen. He’s not stupid enough to think that Vince has learned his lesson about messing with the occult. He hasn’t. Neither he nor Howard ever seem to learn their lesson.

Couple of toddlers is what they are.

Howard, at least, wasn’t home when they left. Vince is moderately less likely to completely fuck everything up on his own. He’s got one of those beautiful, sparkly, rainbow auras that attracts positive energy. Good things land on Vince’s shoulder like he’s a fairytale princess because of it.

Howard’s aura is a fucking disaster. 

It’s an oil-slicked, polluted pond full of garbage and mud. It’s a dark, murky mess of a thing that attracts trouble like a static-charged balloon attracts dog hair. Long, sly fingers of anarchy are always reaching for Howard, trying to burrow into him and pull him down.

Imagine the world’s unluckiest wheelie bin, a wheelie bin located in between a daycare and a dog park. It gets filled with dirty nappies, dog shit, various kinds of sick. Maybe on good days, someone will chuck a snotty tissue into it. On bad days, there’s diarrhea. That’s what Howard’s aura does, what it is.

Naboo would normally keep an aura like that a million miles distant, but Howard and Vince are a package deal.

He feels an itch at the back of his neck, something that tells him it’s starting. He swallows. “You don’t think Vince has already gone in my room, do you Bollo?”

“Bollo think first thing Vince would do is go in Naboo’s room.”

Naboo makes a noise of unease, “But you did tell him everything at least, yeah? This morning?”

“Bollo gave him the rules.”

Naboo’s heart races. He wishes that he had a spliff with him, but of course he didn’t have time to grab anything before he ended up here. He’ll have to try and cope without. He gets to the thought that’s really bothering him, “You don’t think he’ll let Howard in there, do you?”

“Uhh,” Bollo says, noncommittally. 

Just as good as saying that of course Vince will. 

That’s a cosmic joke if ever there was one, the pair of them.

Naboo has considered explaining to Vince that if he’d only cut Howard loose, he could have the world at his feet in seconds; auras like his are their own kind of magic. But he’s also seen what Vince’s aura does around Howard, and what Howard’s aura does around Vince, and, though he’d never actually say it to anyone, that’s its own kind of magic too.

Rainbow stripes shot through with gold and black, colors you can’t even imagine wriggling like fat trout through a stream of embossed jungle flowers… It’s like one of those chemical sunsets that are so beautiful, you can’t really resent the pollution that makes them possible. If you’ve got to watch everything burn, might as well enjoy the show.

It doesn’t stop Naboo, in the here and now, though, from feeling like he’s going to sick up. Something like the bodmai ought to be kept well away from Howard. Continents away, actually. Naboo had hoped that four walls and a door would be enough, but obviously not.

Cruleficent and Dennis finish their tête-à-tête. 

“Naboo,” Dennis says, “it has been decided.”

Naboo’s anxiety uncoils slightly. “Great. When’s the hearing?”

Dennis stalls, like Naboo has taken some of the wind out of his sails, “Er… yes, well, tonight.”

“Tonight?” Naboo asks. He tightens right back up.

“Yes. The next full moon is this very eve,” Dennis says with a glance up at the still-bright winter sky.

“Couldn’t we do it next time?”

Cruleficent interjects, “No. The time is nigh, I shall not wait another lunar cycle for justice to be delivered me.”

Naboo sighs. He already knows it won’t make a difference, but he’s got to give it a go. He winces, “Thing is, though, I’ve kind of got something on back at home.”

“Ah, an extenuating circumstance?” Dennis asks. “By all means explain; I shall hear what it is and perhaps revise my judgement.”

Naboo has a legitimate excuse, but the problem is he can’t say that he’s got the bodmai back at home because the bodmai is _highly_ illegal. If he says something about it, Naboo is fucked. Kyle is fucked. Bollo is fucked. It’s permanent revocation of powers level shit. 

So, he’s got to come up with something else.

Naboo coughs, “Uh, feeling a little under the weather.”

“You seemed perfectly hale only moments ago,” Dennis says.

“Sort of an emotional thing, yeah?”

“These are nothing more than empty excuses!” Cruleficent says with a sneer. Her lips peel back from her teeth, she looks the picture of a snarling wolf, “He wishes his familiar to escape judgement. I shan’t have it.”

“Yes, yes,” Dennis says, with a dismissive wave. He revises his attitude, however, under Cruleficent’s glare. “Er, sorry Naboo. If you cannot provide an explanation, I cannot release you.”

“You’re not keeping me here until midnight, are you?”

“Oh yes. I’m afraid we must. Cruleficent has been most adamant. She claims that you have been dodging her letters—”

“Because no one can read them. She’s got proper chicken scratch, she has. I can’t answer what I can’t read,” Naboo says, panic making him kick off a bit.

“Insolence! Insults! You see how he treats his betters? I shall not stand for it!” Cruleficent says, eyes ablaze. She stalks toward Naboo.

Naboo feels her power flare, like it did in the shop. He hears the trees rattle from a wind that is not natural. She’s a powerful old bitch, no mistake, and she will take him to the cleaners if it comes down to it, but Naboo hasn’t made it as long as he has by failing to have a good poker face. His insides are jumping like worm infested beans put on the heat, but he keeps control of his expression.

She stares deep into his soul. Like he’s made of glass. 

She’s a giant of a woman, tall, imposing. 

Flawless.

Dennis clears his throat, “Er… yes. Well, I think that, for now, we shall have to let the pair of you agree to disagree, yes?”

 _Both_ Cruleficent and Naboo stare at Dennis. Naboo imagines they’re thinking the same thing for a change. _Sod the fuck off._

“Ahem, yes,” Dennis says again, ignoring them. “Cruleficent, why don’t you go up to the lodge and have some tea in the ladies’ sitting parlor? Bollo, we shall have to put you into a holding cell. Come with me. And, ah, Naboo, I have something I would value your opinion on, perhaps, while we wait for the hearing?”

Naboo has no choice. 

Dennis leads them deeper into the woods. The shadows of the trees stretch around them like dark tendrils. Naboo is reminded of Howard’s aura again. He thinks of the damage the bodmai could do in the wrong hands. He shivers, but not completely from cold.

“Can I ring someone up?” he asks.

“As you will,” Dennis says.

Naboo takes out his mobile. No bars. He keeps an eye on it as they walk. They go for ages and the number of bars remains resolutely at none. Naboo looks at Bollo. Bollo only shakes his head. 

He catches up to Dennis, “Do you get reception out here?”

Dennis nods, “Oh yes, I have an excellent network.”

“I can’t borrow your phone, can I?”

Dennis cocks his head to the side, “Sorry, I do not have an unlimited plan and my wife would not be pleased were I to waste precious minutes doing other than talking to her.” Dennis smirks slyly, “She’s a jealous mistress, my Methuselah.”

Fuck’s sake. 

Naboo falls back to Bollo. He hands him his phone, “Keep an eye, yeah? If we get any bars, ring up Vince.”

Vince sets a box on the bed and lifts up the top, it comes loose with a dry _squeep_ of cardboard on cardboard. A fine layer of dust comes away on his fingers. He tosses the lid to the floor rather than muck up Naboo’s bed. He wipes his hands on his trousers. “Alright,” he says, doing his best to sell it, “this is Operation.”

Gadget is leaning back against a wall of pillows, but he creeps forward and sits down next to Vince as he sets up the board. Vince tells him the rules and his ears twitch like adjustable radio aerials with the rise and fall of Vince’s voice. 

There aren’t many of them. Don’t touch the sides, use the little tweezers, collect as many plastic bits as possible. Simple enough.

It’s not everything Vince thought it would be, this taking care of a fantastical creature. It’s a bit like visiting an invalid, really. All they’ve done is play board games and hang about in Naboo’s bedroom.

He’s never been much for this sort of thing. It’s what Howard calls ‘safe fun’ with a wistful look in his eye. Safe fun, though, is bullshit. To Vince, this is the sort of thing you do when all of your mates have died and you’re locked in a bunker with nothing but yourself, a gun, and a gameboard. It’s what you do when there are no other options left. 

In this case, though, there really are no other options.

They’ve agreed that Gadget has to stay in Naboo’s room. It seems unfair (and a little fairy-tale villain-ish) to lock him in there by himself. Naboo doesn’t have anything in his room for entertainment beyond recreational drugs, and Vince doesn’t really think getting Gadget high would be the best idea (he can’t get wet or put into direct sunlight, who the fuck knows what getting him high would do) so that’s out, and, unless they want to completely rearrange the flat, they aren’t getting the telly into Naboo’s room, so the only thing to do is to dip into Howard’s boardgame collection.

You’d think, actually, that Howard would be keener on all of this safe fun happening right at his fingertips, but he’s not.

Instead, he watches all like a distant overlord. He’s still got that wary, suspicious look in his eyes (they follow Gadget around the room they’re attached to a creepy painting out of a horror film). He hasn’t relaxed whatsoever in the past four hours. Vince wonders if (at some point) the stress of watching _absolutely nothing_ happen will be too much for him and he’ll keel over. Seems like he might.

He’s got the face twitches, the eye tremors, the tooth-baring grimaces instead of smiles; you’d think he was headed up a gallows, he looks so ill at ease. It would be funny, and maybe it was for an hour or so, but now it’s just _wearing_. Nothing even remotely amiss has happened. 

They’ve played a tournament of noughts and crosses (ended in a draw between Vince and Gadget), they played Yahtzee (Vince won), they played Connect Four (Gadget won); they’ve played so many games (Vince isn’t sure where in his room Howard keeps getting them from) that Vince is starting to go cross-eyed with the dullness, but Howard cannot relax.

He’s hyper-vigilant. Every time Gadget picks something up, Howard flinches, like whatever it is might magically transform into a chainsaw. Every time Gadget leans toward him, Howard recoils like he’s being threatened by a rabid hyena. Vince keeps trying to tell him (with targeted eye contact) (with encouraging pats) (with gentle smiles) that he’s being ridiculous. Howard, though, is not picking up the message. He’s just corkscrewing into tighter and tighter spirals of tension. 

Vince can practically hear the muscles in his neck (elastic bands being drawn tight) as his shoulders inch up toward his ears. He’s all knotted up like a challah. 

Vince puts the finishing touches on Operation (he always leaves the broken heart piece for last) (seems a shame to give even a fake, gameboard man a broken heart before you have to) and switches the board on.

“Alright, last winner goes first?” he asks. He hands Gadget the tweezers (Howard cringes). Gadget stands over the board and looks over their carboard patient. He’s almost the right size to be in an actual operating theater. His ears cast a fabulous, huge shadow across the naked cartoon below him as he leans down and gently plucks the watering can out of the knee. He holds it with the tweezers as though unsure what to do with it.

“Great job,” Vince says. He holds out his hand and Gadget deposits the piece into his palm (Howard releases an audible breath when Gadget doesn’t impale Vince’s hand with the tweezers). “We’ll keep this in your pile, right here. Go on, go for another.”

Gadget looks over the man again. The tweezers sweep back and forth. He ultimately decides to go for the butterfly, but he hits the side. The buzz startles him back. 

It makes Howard leap a mile. 

“Sorry, mate,” Vince says, placing his hand on Gadget’s back. “Pass over to Howard.”

Gadget proffers the tweezers. Howard’s face twists like he’s about to get shanked with a rusty shiv. Vince’s eyes travel around the world for 80 days. 

Howard’s hands are shaking so badly, that it’s not really surprising that he can’t get out the wishbone. He hits the sides three separate times ( _buzz, buzz, buzzzz_ ) before he (shakily) withdraws the tweezers and hands them to Vince.

 _Relax,_ Vince thinks at him (again) when their eyes briefly meet. 

Doesn’t help though. Howard radiates nerves like a fussy Chernobyl on the way to meltdown.

Vince sighs. “Okay, what should I go for?” he asks himself (it’s about the 200th comment he’s made that no one has replied to) (Gadget’s really only got squeaks and chirps, and a couple of little phrases that he’s picked up) (Howard is as tense and silent as a Trappist Monk wanking to a saucy picture of Mother Theresa in the confessional) as he hovers over the pieces. He gets out the butterfly and the horse. 

He goes for the spare rib and hits the side. “Fuck,” he says with more heat than he actually feels. He hands Gadget the tweezers. The game continues. Vince wins, Gadget comes in second. Howard sucks bare arse and doesn’t even pick up a single piece.

“Alright, well, that’s that one, then,” Vince says, not in the least tempted to go for another round. Of all the games, Operation has probably been the most disastrous. All the buzzer has done is (possibly) remind Howard of an air raid siren. He looks like he’s expecting the blitz at any second.

Vince looks over at the clock on Naboo’s nightstand. It’s only 3:00. How is that fucking possible? It feels like they’ve been doing this for _years_.

“What do you fancy, Howard?” he asks, desperately trying to pull him out of whatever hellish fugue state he’s in. Howard, though, doesn’t even seem to hear him. He’s only got ears for cracking glass, for shattering cookery, for nightmare noises that twist reality around dark bends. Vince isn’t sure what it is that Howard actually hears, but he knows what he can hear, which is nothing.

Not precisely nothing. He can hear his own blood pounding in his ears. He can hear the slightest occlusion in Gadget’s breath, like he’s got a bit of a stuffy nose, every time he exhales. He can hear dust motes pinging off one another like someone striking the side of an aboveground pool when your ears are underwater.

The quiet is unbearable. 

And it is broken by a low, gurgling rumble. It’s come from Gadget’s tummy. It’s like a crack of doom, that noise, or so it must sound to Howard. Gadget might have just sprouted wires, C4, and a countdown timer for the look of fear Howard gives him.

“Hungry?” Vince asks.

“Yum-yums,” Gadget concurs.

“Maybe we’ll take a break from the games then, have a little bite.” 

Howard catches his eye, _don’t do it!_

_But we have to feed him eventually._

_Now though?_

_Why not?_

_Are you sure that—?_

Vince looks away, “You’d let me know if it was bad to feed you right now, wouldn’t you?” 

Gadget looks up at him innocently, his eyes are wide and guileless. 

“Course you would,” Vince says. He’s trying to foster an environment of trust, here. He ruffles Gadget’s ears (they flop softly against his hand) (whatever else, he is well cute) and the bodmai makes an affectionate little croon.

They might as well be on different planets, Howard and he. Vince is having a nice moment. Howard is _panicking_. Fussy Chernobyl is melting down at last (red lights are flashing) (sirens are blaring) (get your hazmat suits on).

“Vince,” Howard hisses (the first thing he’s said in _hours_ ) “don’t—”

“It’s fine, Howard,” Vince assures him (cool down the reactor, that’s what needs doing). “How about you pick us out another game and I’ll get us all something to eat?”

“But—”

“ _Howard_ ,” Vince says, he tilts his head to the side, his eyes implore him (as much as his tone of voice does) to get a bleeding hold of himself.

Howard’s teeth click together as he chokes back whatever objection he was about to raise. He nods. He watches Gadget as he gets up (rattle snake, grizzly bear, demon from the 9th circle of hell; take your pick for which it is Howard sees when he looks at him) and soft soles away from the bed. He tugs down his cardigan and edges toward the door. He’s Indiana fucking Jones backing away from that altar in _Raiders of the Lost Arc_.

Vince watches this asinine performance and questions his life choices. 

With a shake of his head, Vince scoots to the edge of the bed. Gadget follows him, his little feet making divots in Naboo’s coverlet. He holds his arms out to Vince as he stands, “Out?” he asks.

“Oh, mate…” Vince says.

“No!” Howard says quickly (loudly) (nervously). He offers a quavering smile to Gadget, “That’s… um… against Naboo’s rules, you know.”

Gadget looks up at Vince with wide, imploring eyes, clearly believing the final say rests in his hands. Howard watches Vince warily, like he doesn’t really think that he’ll side with him over their adorable new companion. Vince wishes he could make both of them happy at once, but he can’t.

“Sorry, Gadget, but Howard’s right. It’s safer for you in here.” He feels bad for Gadget. He can’t imagine being stuck in a single room for however many days Gadget will be stuck there. It seems like a shit way to spend Christmas, that’s for sure.

“We’ll be right back,” Vince promises. Gadget visibly deflates. He sidles away from Vince and leans up against the pillows like he’s a widow looking out to sea for a husband who will never return.

Vince follows Howard into the hall. Howard releases a held breath. “Should we really leave him alone in there?” he asks as soon as he draws the door closed.

“What’s he going to do in ten minutes?” Vince asks (seriously, though), “Just go get us another game and I’ll sort the food.”

Howard creaks like a noisy floorboard. 

“It’s got to be alright,” Vince insists over the wordless objection. “He needs to eat. I’m starving, too. Just try to breathe, yeah?”

“I am breathing!” Howard says. He inhales and exhales a few times to prove his point.

“You haven’t been. You’ve been going blue in there.”

“I’m just trying to remain alert,” Howard says.

“You’re doing a great job.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, alright? Look, go get us something else to play. Not any of those weird games, either, with twenty pages of rules and the little wooden men,” Vince says just to alleviate some of his frustration at the whole afternoon. He knows that Howard wouldn’t dare. He’d probably be too worried that Gadget would lose the pieces first off, or eat them, or _weaponize them_ somehow. Plus, the last time they went down that particular avenue, it was a disaster.

The game was a disaster, anyway (Howard reading the rules in that didactic monotone of his, getting all shirty because Vince kept forgetting them, going over Vince’s maths like he was going to grade him, sorting all the little bits back into the appropriate trays so that the box would fit closed properly; he was a fucking _nightmare_ the whole time). 

Afterwards, though... (it had only been a just comeuppance when Vince tipped the box upside down right before Howard put the lid back on) (the colorful blocks, the tiny trees, the inexpertly rendered sheep, all of it, fell like a shower of confetti, hit the floor and scattered under the sofa, skated into the kitchen, rolled down the stairs; went everywhere) (Howard had gone absolutely mental) (in more ways than one). 

Vince is smirking at the memory by the time Howard says, “Meeples,” with his signature annoyed tolerance.

“Whatever,” Vince says. “Just get us, like Uno or something, if you’ve got it.”

“I have,” Howard says (his nerves are getting replaced by something _else_ ) (he might be remembering too). 

“Great,” (large hands closing over Vince’s hips, pulling him back, holding him in place) (Vince’s back arching, grinding on the long, hard line of heat against his arse) (hot breath in his ear, on the back of his neck) (the wet slurp of mouth against mouth, mess over finesse) (Howard’s hand splayed over the flat of his stomach, dark against pale).

Vince bites his lip. They stand in the hallway for a beat. If Gadget weren’t waiting for them… but he is.

Vince turns toward the kitchen, Howard goes into his room. 

The kitchen is dark with the curtains drawn. Vince never thought he could possibly be so glad for such a limited change of scenery, but he is. He flicks on the lights and opens the fridge. There is a surprisingly large amount of food in it.

There’s cold pasta that will be easy to heat up, frozen fish fingers and chips that he can do in the oven, there’s cheese and bread, too, so he can make cheese toasties if he wants... he decides to do it all. He remembers how much food Bollo had taken the night before. He can’t imagine Gadget actually eating all of it, so he assumes the bodmai must be finicky and he’s not sure what, exactly, Gadget will like.

He gets the pasta going in the microwave while the oven pre-heats, then does the toasties. Once the oven beeps, he puts in the fish fingers and chips and grabs some sweets out of the cabinet. 

He himself prefers things that are mostly corn-syrup and sugar, so that’s what he gravitates toward. Jelly Babies, Midget Gems, Smarties, Pop Rocks; all that and more are all waiting for him, but he probably shouldn’t overdo it on the sugar (Howard will complain). He limits himself to the Jelly Babies and a dusty box of Maltesers hidden way at the back of the cabinet that he won’t be sorry to see go. He puts both offerings into little bowls and then, thinking that he’s provided for himself and Gadget, he reaches back into the cabinet to get a Curly Wurly for Howard. 

He also drinks for the first time since that morning. A full glass of water and then another half-glass. As he places the glass on the counter he wonders if Gadget needs to drink. He must do, but then, if he does, what would he drink? Vince is half-tempted to bring him a glass of something, but he decides against it. It’s still unclear to him how much water he’s meant to be kept away from, and he doesn’t want to take the chance.

The timer on the oven dings and Vince switches it off. The fish fingers are hot coming off the tray and they scald his fingertips a little as he transfers them to a plate. 

He’s stretched himself to the limits of his culinary abilities. Altogether, it looks like he’s prepared a feast for a gang of ten-year-olds with bad diets. He hopes Gadget will eat something out of all this lot.

He gets a tray and loads the food onto it and then he decides to bring the remains of his takeaway with him, just in case Howard turns his nose up at the beige feast Vince has prepared.

Howard is waiting for him outside the door. He’s got the pack of Uno cards in one hand and he’s tapping them against his palm restlessly.

“Did you wait for me in the hall?”

Howard shrugs (he obviously has).

“Alright, well, get the door then.” Vince steps out of the way and Howard twists the handle. He swings the door wide.

Gadget looks up hopefully from the bed, “Brought you an assortment,” Vince says. He half-watches Howard as he puts the plates down on the bed, waits to see the tightness bloom around his eyes (it starts to creep in as soon as he inches into the room). Vince puts down the sweets last of all, “Not sure what you like,” he says, sliding the plates toward Gadget.

Gadget examines the offerings before him. He makes little squeaks (like a delighted parakeet) before he picks up a fish finger. He smiles and _then_... 

It’s accurate to say that Vince has never seen anything like it, except, perhaps, in cartoons. The bodmai eats like he’s part ravenous shark and part bottomless hoover. His hands move so fast, they blur. His table manners are well atrocious. Absolutely fucking awful, but he’s too determined an eater to make any mess. Everything is gone in no more than thirty seconds. He puts his hand to his mouth and stifles a little burp.

“Fuck me,” Vince says, eyes wide.

Howard is still standing in the open doorframe and he’s staring too. “Quite the appetite he’s got, eh?”

“Yum-yums,” Gadget says with a happy rub of his tummy.

“Yeah,” Vince agrees. He watches the bodmai with a vague apprehension. If something is going to happen, he reckons it will happen now, but nothing does. It’s fine. His instinct has been proven correct. He gets his expression under control, projects an air of I-told-you-so as he looks back at Howard, “Glad I held onto my takeaway. You want some?”

Howard nods.

They pass the container back and forth between them while Vince explains Uno to Gadget. Howard is starting to go tense again, and it gets worse the longer they sit in the room. Vince starts dealing out the cards. He doesn’t want jumpy, silent Howard back, and that is the way it will go unless... “Want to make this interesting?” he asks.

It takes Howard a moment to notice that he’s been asked a question (he’s already begun to resume that laser focus on everything Gadget does, even when it’s no more than picking up playing cards) but then he looks at Vince, “How?”

“Wager,” Vince says. 

“What for?”

Vince gives him a little flash of smile (Marilyn Monroe on the underground grate before her skirt gets blown all the way up), “Depends on who wins, yeah?”

Howard adjusts the cards in his hand, “What do I get if I win?”

“How about that thing you asked for last night?” Vince says (his smile deepens, the train is speeding toward the grate, the hem begins to float higher).

Howard looks back at him blankly.

“On the sofa,” he clarifies, and hopes that he wasn’t wrong in the moment (though, whatever Howard was asking for, even if it’s not what he thinks it is, Vince will be more than happy to give him), “you know, while we were... having fun?”

There is a light that goes on in Howard’s eyes, “Oh... but you don’t even know... um... what it was that I was going to...”

“I’ve a guess.”

Howard clears his throat and his eyes slide sideways while Vince continues to leer at him. “Um, okay. What if you win?”

“Something of my choice,” Vince says. “Whatever I want.”

“Seems vague.”

“Yeah, well, can’t exactly go into specifics right now, can I?” he says with a meaningful glance toward Gadget.

“Something of the same nature then?” Howard asks.

“Yeah,” Vince grins.

A pause drops like a feather floating to the ground. “Alright. And if he wins?” Howard asks, nodding toward Gadget.

“What would you like if you win, Gadget?” Vince asks. “More sweeties?”

“Yum-yums,” Gadget agrees.

“Sounds like we all have something to play for,” Vince says, organizing his hand. It’s not bad; he’s started with two draw four wilds and a skip. He gives Howard another smile (the devil’s smile).

“First to fifty, then,” Howards states. He assesses Vince with a stare (the precise stare of an accountant).

Howard is starting to add him up, and if he’s doing _that_ sort of calculation, he’s too busy to panic.

Vince is quite pleased with himself. He’s dealt, Howard starts play.

If it were just the two of them, Vince would have won the first hand, but Gadget throws a wrench in things. He gets the other draw fours, plus a number of draw twos and Vince cannot buy a reverse for the life of him, so the bodmai takes the first hand as well as an obscene number of points. Howard ends up with the second and the third hands, but Vince wins the next, only to lose again to Gadget. He gets on a winning streak, though, and by the time they’re on their eighth hand, it’s close. Gadget is still slightly ahead, but Vince is right behind him. Howard is third, but not by much.

It’s anybody’s game. 

Howard deals. Vince watches the cards closely, completely absorbed in a game for the first time all day. The stakes could not be higher.

Alright, well, they probably could, but it doesn’t stop Vince from being well entertained by his ploy.

Gadget plays first. He mostly won on luck the first go around, but he’s picked up a bit of strategy now. He doesn’t blow a reverse early in the game, for instance. He’s noticed that following Howard is a major advantage (Howard has _shit_ luck and the cards that go with it). He plays his cards from highest denomination to lowest, unless he’s got the same numbers in different colors. He’s a quick study, is Gadget.

He lays down a blue nine over the green nine they started with. Suits Vince just fine, he’s got loads of blue. Blue up to his ears. Vince plays a blue skip, Howard scowls. Gadget goes again. 

He lays down a blue seven, his fingers hesitate over it for just a fraction of a second, a sort of fond hope in the gesture. Vince has a blue seven too, but he feels something that tells him to put down one of his lower cards. He puts down a blue six. Howard has to draw from the pile. Gadget has to draw too. Vince smirks.

Vince puts down a blue three. Howard puts a yellow three over that. Gadget has yellow, too. Plays a yellow four. Vince hasn’t got any yellow. He draws, picks up a draw four wild. He puts it down, “Draw four, Howard. Change to blue.”

Howard grumbles while he picks up his cards. He’s glaring at Vince, clearly wondering how, or if it’s possible to cheat at Uno, and hating his luck. 

Gadget is thwarted by the color change too. He picks from the deck and folds the card he gets into his pack with a sigh. 

Vince puts down a blue four. Howard puts down a blue draw two on Gadget and the bodmai squacks irritably and Howard says, “Ha!” at him (success is counted sweetest by those who least succeed) (or whatever) before Gadget picks up his additional cards. 

Vince plays his blue seven at last. He’s got two cards left. 

Howard plays a wild, “Red,” he says.

Gadget plays a red reverse, Howard plays a red skip.

Vince fidgets a little. It’s Howard’s turn to smirk.

Gadget plays a red draw-two. 

“Berk,” Howard says under his breath while he picks up his cards. Gadget makes a trilling collection of squeaks that’s probably a giggle.

Not for long, though. Vince lays down the other red draw two. “Uno,” he says.

Gadget picks up his cards. He and Howard share a look and possibly a thought. It’s up to Howard, his luck and his cards.

Howard slides around his cards, selects the best one he’s got to offer and lays it down with finality. It’s a wild. He looks into Vince’s eyes like he’s hoping Vince has got his card imprinted on his retina (but all Vince has there is what he wants Howard to see). “Green,” he says (his face is a pair of fingers crossed so tight, they might snap).

Vince tilts his head to the side, stretches his fingers toward the draw pile, gives Howard a millisecond to think that he’s done it, but, of course, he hasn’t. He’s done exactly as Vince needed him to. He puts down his final card, a green five, with a flourish. He’s won.

Gadget squeaks. He tackles into Vince’s side. Vince laughs as the little bodmai half-heartedly attacks him. He wraps him up in his arms and then Howard lays into him from the other side, “Get him!” he says, as he pins Vince down.

Vince laughs and protests, but his arms have gone weak because he can’t catch his breath, so he’s easily overwhelmed by the combined forces of Howard and Gadget. The three of them tousle and play-fight; this is how it should have been the whole afternoon, the three of them should have been having fun (even if it is only _safe fun_ ) and the achievement of this goal (at last) makes Vince giddy. 

He’s not as strong as Howard, but he’s more agile. He slips his arm out from Howard’s grip, hooks a leg around Howard’s back, and goes in for a tickle on Howard’s side. Surprised, Howard yelps, attempts to grab Vince’s arm again, but Gadget is trying to help, and Howard’s hand connects with Gadget’s back accidentally and the bodmai goes flying off the bed. 

He lands with a soft crunch in Naboo’s wastepaper bin. Vince pushes Howard off him immediately, “Howard!” Vince scolds, “Easy does it!”

Poor Gadget struggles until Vince can lift him out.

“I’m sorry,” Howard says, “Is he alright?”

Vince looks him over. A discarded rolling paper is stuck to one of his ears, and he’s got the ashy remains of a joint in his fur, but other than that, he seems fine. “Yeah, looks alright,” Vince says, cleaning him up. He peels back Gadget’s fur on top of his head, just to make sure he’s got all the ash out and Gadget suddenly squeaks. Vince sees a small, shallow cut, “Oh, he’s got a little scrape. Shit. Get him some plasters from the bathroom?”

“They’ll never stick with all that fur...”

“Alright, well, some bandages and cotton then. We’ll wrap his little head up. Sorry about that, Gadget,” Vince says. The bodmai’s eyes look wet, he whines pathetically. Vince winces, “I’m going to take him into the kitchen.”

“What?” Howard asks, “I thought we agreed—”

“I know, but it’ll be easier to work on him out there. He can sit on the counter and we can spread everything out. Anyway, he’s not any trouble, is he? It’ll just be for a few minutes.”

Reluctantly, Howard agrees. He goes to the bathroom as Vince takes the sniffling Gadget into the kitchen. 

“Bright light,” Gadget protests and Vince switches off the overhead lights with a muttered curse. 

“Sorry,” he says, “Fucked that up a bit, didn’t I?” 

He sets Gadget down on the island and then turns on the floor lamp and the Christmas tree, both of which fill the room with enough light to be able to see by, but not enough to hurt Gadget’s sensitive eyes. Gadget’s sniffles get a little quieter as he stares in fascination at the Christmas tree.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Vince says as he fishes in the cabinet for a lolly. “Everyone does white lights these days, but I think they’re bollocks. Colored lights all the way.” He finds one (a flat, rainbow stripey one) and hands it to Gadget. “Now, don’t inhale it all at once. Suck on it and enjoy it,” he says, suppressing the immature giggle that threatens as he delivers this advice.

Gadget takes it and does as Vince suggests. He’s quiet by the time Howard comes in with the bandages. He sets everything up in a line (antiseptic, cotton, gauze pads, bandage roll, scissors) and starts tending to the bodmai.

The antiseptic must sting a little, Gadget makes a small sound of distress while Howard applies it. Vince holds his hand and Gadget gives it a little squeeze. After that, though, it’s smooth sailing. Howard places the finishing touches on the bandage, puts his hands on his hips, “Well, that’s that,” he says. He goes to grab the scissors to cut the bandage, but the room is dim and he’s not looking where his hand is headed (again). 

It collides with Vince’s half-full glass from before. 

Water spreads over the surface of the counter in a veritable tidal wave.

Shit. 

As soon as the spray hits Gadget, it’s like he’s had acid dumped over him. His skin bubbles like a boiling cauldron, he screams and kicks his legs; it’s horrible. Vince is sure that they’ve killed him. His hand flies to his mouth in a gesture of horrified delicacy that he can do nothing to stop.

“Howard!” Vince shouts. Howard grabs his arm and Vince clings to him.

It smells like burning fur; Gadget’s back hisses white sheets of steam; then, _pop, whistle, pop, pop_! 

Three balls of fuzz spring out of Gadget’s back and land a ways distant on the floor; another four pop away. The balls gyrate from side to side like rocking horses. Vince has no idea what the fuck is happening, but Gadget is quieting down. Vince lets go of Howard and goes to him. He seems weak, but he’s alive (thank Christ) and apparently unhurt by the clumps of fur that have abandoned him.

“Jesus!” Howard shouts.

Vince looks down to the floor again and sees the clumps of fur, (no, there’s flesh there too) slowly swell. They roll as they inflate like furry water balloons. Bare patches form along their sides. Then, one by one, ears unfold; creatures unfold. 

There are seven more bodmai in the kitchen.

Vince expects that the new bodmai will be complete copies of Gadget (he doesn’t know why he expects anything, because _this_ is not something that ever entered his mind), but they aren’t. Their markings are all different. One has a white patch over its eye, another has a white belly, but is brown the rest of the way over. The one that stands out, though, has a white mohawk going up the center of his head, like an unmown strip of grass on a lawn.

All of them spend a moment looking at one another and the room they’re in. Vince and Howard share a look too.

Obviously, this is bad. 

Or, maybe bad. 

Okay, it wasn’t supposed to happen, but it’s not the worst thing in the world, considering that Vince had thought they might have killed Gadget a moment ago. 

Compared to that, it’s almost welcome.

Still, it’s not great. Naboo is going to go batshit. 

Gadget says what everyone is thinking, “Fuck.”


	7. Chapter 7

Howard isn’t happy about being proved correct. He’s really not. 

But there is something _vindicating_ about the present situation, even if it is a fucking mess.

As soon as they regained the ability to move, Vince had started scrambling. He turned on the telly and, one by one, herded the new bodmai to the sofa. Howard had asked him if they shouldn’t try to get them all back into Naboo’s room, but Vince had pointed out that it was a little late to try and put a _very much out cat_ back into the bag.

The new bodmai are hardly the quiet, polite guest that Gadget is. That had also been part of Vince’s reasoning. If they were put into Naboo’s room wound up like they are, like as not they’d make a mess of it. Damage control is all they can aim for now. They are going to need every single inch of Naboo’s good will when he gets home.

So, he’s half-watching some inane Christmas special while the bodmai woop and cheer and imitate the noises on the screen, and half watching Vince as he paces and frantically dials Naboo’s mobile to no avail.

Funny how he hadn’t thought to call it earlier, back before everything turned to shit. Fucking hilarious, actually.

Howard knows that it’s as much his fault as anyone’s, some would argue it’s probably _more_ his fault than anyone’s, but he’s still angry. 

Vince was the one who suggested bringing Gadget out here, he was the one to leave the half-empty glass lying about, he was the one who neglected to place a call to their one and only magical contact, and the one who made Howard let his guard down when he very well should have kept it up. He was also the one who taught Gadget to swear, which, yeah, is pretty minor, but still. Point is, it’s not just Howard’s fault.

He was right, he was so completely right, that it’s practically killing him not to say anything. The only thing saving him is the fact that he doesn’t need to.

Vince is very obviously reading his thoughts. He slouches and sulks around the flat, redialing and redialing Naboo every thirty seconds. He refuses to meet Howard’s eye.

Vince hangs up again, “Shit,” he says. He ruffles up the back of his hair and spins on his heel, “Fuck. Why won’t he answer?”

“Bad luck,” Howard says not feeling a whole hell of a lot of sympathy.

Vince shoots him a dirty look. The old kind of dirty look. The kind that says _shut the fuck up_ and not _shut up and fuck me_.

Howard is too irritated to give a shit about the difference. It’s almost freeing, being completely angry with Vince for the first time in months. It feels like he’s navigating something he knows the shape of again, instead of tripping his way through invisible laser beams and hoping he’s not going to set off any alarms.

Vince slumps against the refrigerator. He chews at his cuticle and looks at the crowded sofa as though it’s on fire. Definitely like it’s worrying him anyway. “What are we going to do, Howard?”

Howard shrugs, “How should I know?” _Not my problem_.

“Well, come up with something!”

“Why don’t you come up with something for a change?” Howard asks. He’s, quite frankly, done with the whole thing. Stress has made him tired, the unavoided unavoidable disaster has made him angry, and, worse, Vince is still looking to him for answers, answers that Howard _does not have_. 

His idea had been prevention, and that idea was thrown out the window.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Vince insists, “but... you’re the one who does the plans! You know—”

“I’m the one who does the plans, eh?” Howard asks, and he’s perhaps getting a little shouty, but he can’t stop himself, not when Vince is putting everything squarely on his shoulders, yet again. “Good job that you never listen to me, then.”

Vince’s eyes flare, he runs a hand through his fringe, smiles in a way that suggests he’s not so much amused as he is fucking irritated. Howard welcomes it. 

“I listen to you. I always listen to you.”

“Please,” Howard says derisively. It’s almost as though Vince has forgotten not just the past ten hours, but also the past twenty years. “I said we should keep him in the room, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and then you agreed when I said we’d have more space out here to take care of him.”

“So?”

“So, you could have said no, Howard! You could’ve—”

“Oh, of course, I forgot. I need to say something to you eight times before it sinks in.”

“No, you don’t. It’s just you’ve been jumpy and sort of overreacting—”

“Overreacting? Have I? How can you say that now?” Howard asks as he throws a hand toward the sofa.

Vince glances toward the bobbing ears that are just visible over the back of the sofa. His lips compress, “Alright,” he concedes, then immediately picks up with, “but it’s not so bad, is it?” Howard can’t believe that Vince has even suggested such a thing. Vince catches his expression and he shuffles in place, “Okay, it’s bad, yeah, but nothing’s been ruined. You have to admit, you’re going a little over the top—”

“I am going ‘a little over the top’, Vince! Of course I am!”

“Alright, Howard, Jesus. Just go breathe into a paper bag or something and calm—”

“ _Do not_ tell me to calm down. Don’t.”

Vince raises his hands in the universal gesture of placation before he says, “I’m just saying, you can’t think when you’re like this.”

Howard laughs and it’s sharp, hard laughter that feels like breaking glass underfoot, “Oh, of course. I can’t think. I’m no good to you if I can’t swoop in and save the day, am I? Well, I _shouldn’t have to_!” 

“I didn’t—” Vince starts, but Howard cuts him off.

“I wouldn’t have to think if you just bloody listened to me before! Or, how about, if you could be arsed to clean up after yourself! Why the hell would you leave a half-empty glass of water lying about?”

Vince looks skyward, “I didn’t know what was going to happen! I didn’t know you were going to backhand Gadget off Naboo’s bed, did I?”

“I told you something bad was going to happen!”

“I know!” Vince yells, properly yells. It’s an alien sound that Howard hardly recognizes. It knocks him silent. Vince shakes his head. He looks stunned too. “I know you did,” he says more quietly. He breathes, and Howard breathes, and for a moment, Howard thinks it’s going to stop. He’s pushed too hard and he’s ready for it to stop. 

He knows, deep, deep down, that it isn’t Vince he’s angry at, but himself. It’s his fault, him and his stupid, clumsy water buffalo hands, and it’s only a matter of time before Vince figures that out, and once he figures that out, he’s going to start asking what good Howard is anyway, and once he starts asking that, it all falls apart. 

He just wants to keep things together. He’s going about it wrong, and he knows that too, but, so long as it stops, he can pull it back.

But Vince isn’t done, and it doesn’t stop. 

Vince chews at the corner of his lip until it curls up into a sneer. “I know you did,” he says a third time, “but, Howard? You think something bad is going to happen every day. You think something bad is going to happen every second. You make things bad just thinking that they’re going to go wrong!”

“I make things bad,” _he does, he definitely does_ , “ _I_ make things bad?” Howard spits, _he doesn’t need to be told what he already knows_. “ _You_ make things bad when you ignore me,” _that’s true too, they can both play at this_. “I warned you, I _told_ you, but you... you...” Howard loses his words for a moment, sputters before he says, “can’t seem to get a grip on reality.”

Vince shakes his head, his hips jut to the side and he goes sulky, “I suppose you know what’s real, then?” his voice is soft again, familiar; this is the Vince that Howard has had arguments beyond counting with, the Vince that he’s never been able to hurt no matter what he’s said, because Vince has never really cared what he has to say.

Howard sees red.

His eyes go so small, he can barely see out of them. He glares at Vince, “At least I don’t behave like a bloody two-year-old, throwing tantrums, acting like I’ve got no idea how the world fucking works, getting someone else to solve all my problems and come up with all the plans because _I can’t do it_ ,” he says, his voice rising higher the longer he speaks. 

“At least I clean up after myself!” he says with a gesture at the now and forever infamous glass in the sink, “At least I’m capable of forethought! At least I don’t act like everything is a bloody joke all the time!” He just wants Vince to listen to him, that’s all he really wants, and Vince is listening right now. Howard is so angry, he can’t think of what he really wants to say. He’s so frightened, he doesn’t realize what it is that’s scaring him. 

His anger needs some place to go, and the only thing in front of him is the one person he wants more than anything to keep, but right now, he looks like something Howard wants to destroy. 

Vince’s face is blank, an unaffected mask. Howard can’t hurt him. 

Howard wants to prove that he _can_. 

“You’re a bloody child!” he shouts. “A bloody fucking irresponsible nuisance! You expect me to fix it, take care of all your problems; well, maybe _I don’t want to!_ Why don’t you stop pestering me and fix it yourself? Just grow the fuck up!” 

The flat is silent. The whole world recoils. There isn’t even a peep from the sofa full of bodmai. The only sound is from an advert on the telly and even the bright, holiday tinted shilling seems muted.

Howard is breathing hard. He’s hearing the words he just said like he’s in an echo-chamber. They’re coming back to him like a returning tide. He’s drowning in cold waves that close over his ankles, cover his hips, rise to his neck, and flood over his head. His feet are a dead weight. He can’t kick up and get his head above water again.

If Howard is drowning, Vince is breaking. His eyes, so blue, so big, so wide, like a clear sky— they’re always meant to be like a brilliant, summer sky— they’re filling with tears. 

Rain. Howard has made it rain.

At last, he’s made it rain.

But it’s not a victory. It’s the worst feeling in the world.

 _No, no, no, no, no,_ ad infinitum. 

“Vince—”

“Piss off, Howard,” Vince says. He looks down toward his shoes and then flicks his fringe out of his eyes. He sniffs a bitter laugh. The sort of laugh that that is levying back a river of things he doesn’t want to say. “Yeah, fucking piss off. I don’t care where you go. Just... go somewhere else.”

“What’re you going—?”

“Who the fuck cares, right?” he asks with a shrug that seems to travel through his whole body. “I’ll think of something. Be an _adult_.” He wipes the corner of his eye, but his face is still as stone. Makes sense, Howard thinks, that Vince would be a controlled crier. He doesn’t know why, but it makes sense.

Howard remains frozen in place, wishing for something to say, something to do, but Vince hasn’t got the patience to wait for something that is obviously _too late_. “Go on,” he says, with a nod down the hall. 

Howard understands. He’s been sent to his room.

He goes. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

As soon as he shuts the door behind him, he feels something snap, something like a brace, or a girder, something that is meant to support him fails, _oh, Christ, it’s over_ , and he can do nothing but stand and look at the room in front of him like he’s seeing it for the first time.

He sees it how Vince would see it. The hospital corners on the bed, the meticulously organized crates of records, the desk stacked with mostly empty notebooks, the miniature version of Stationery Village just to the side of it. 

His record player, his beautiful and beloved Victrola, sits under his window. He’s always thought she added personality to the room. An edge, a quirk, a little bit of panache.

But he sees now, that even she does nothing to make it look any more inhabited, any less restrictive. 

He remembers her as he’d first seen her, in his Nan’s dining room, shining in reflected sunlight. She’s the best thing he’s got, the only thing he’s had since he was a kid. She comes with memories of his Nan’s house, of family gatherings, summer holidays, of the first Christmas when it all started going wrong, yes, but far more than that, too. 

He’d heard _Yardbird_ for the first time on the Victrola. His Nan had bought him that record.

But even the warmth of the memories she comes with can’t alter the truth.

Howard’s room is a cell.

It looks like a sad little box from which he cannot escape. He almost had, but now, this is his place. Again. It always was.

He’s built it just as he likes it, but it’s boring, bland, contained, utterly forgettable, and colorless. It’s not enough. Maybe it was once, but it isn’t now. He can’t go back to just this.

He feels like a bass line deprived of melody. Bass sounds fine on its own, but once you’ve been given the sparkle, the dance, of melody above, if you take it away again, bass is less than half a song. That’s how he feels now. 

Vince is his melody. What good is bass if it isn’t steady enough to keep rhythm for the only thing in the world that gives it meaning?

He knew from the very beginning that he would fuck it up, him and Vince. Vince would be the one to end it, but Howard would be the one to fuck it up. 

He’s just done it. He has to have.

Howard feels his eyes getting full. 

His breath hitches.

He’s such a stupid twat.

Howard is not a controlled crier. His tears twist his face up like a car that’s sped heedlessly into a cement wall. He cries like a soaked flannel that’s getting wrung out. His face goes red and snotty. The only good thing is that he cries almost silently. It’s just breath and the occasional break in his throat, and no one can hear it except for him.

The last of the winter sun dies outside. Cold dark hangs outside his window, broken only by an orange floodlight out in the alley. His tears slow.

He feels strange. Drifty.

His room goes dark, and then, like an artificial dawn, blue light blossoms from the baseboards and crawls up the walls, melting the plaster, leaving exposed brick. The air turns smoky. There is the tinkle of glassware off in in the dark space that suddenly stretches out in front of him. He cannot see the faces of the crowd that he knows is there, but he hears the hush that comes, not from a room being empty, but from a room full of people trying to be quiet.

Howard sees a lit cigarette in his hand, he raises the other up to his hair. It’s slicked back with pomade. He’s wearing a black three-piece suit and a narrow tie, tight around his throat.

A soft saxophone plays, a ghost of sound that breathes just loudly enough for Howard to hear it. It wails a desolate, whiskey-flavored tune. 

He loosens the knot on the tie, steps toward an old-fashioned microphone that rises out of the floor. He cups the pole, leans into the microphone and tilts it gently forward, like he’s dipping it during a dance. 

“Love,” he says, his voice low. The saxophone croons.

“A meditation.”

A soft razzle of cymbal creeps up as he lets the tension build.

“By Howard Moon.”

The world waits for his voice. He turns to us and speaks:

“What good is love to a man?

To make him see with new eyes  
To give him reason  
(To bring him pain)

What good is love  
When it ends?

When it’s over  
(What’s left?)

The man

And his new eyes that see  
Just how empty  
The world is  
(Without love).”

The saxophone trails off like headlights fading down a foggy London street. The crowd doesn’t clap, they just continue their silent vigil until, one by one, they get consumed by the recession of the room. The blue light seeps down the walls; the plaster, his bookshelves, his bed, all reappear. He wears his rollneck and corduroys again.

He’s alone in his room, in the dark, and in the silence.

_So, this day has turned to rubbish._

That’s what Vince thinks as he works on the bed he’s putting together for the bodmai.

They’re occupied now, with a whole bunch of toys and trinkets that he’s brought up from the shop to cheer them up with (they were all pretty miserable after his and Howard’s little domestic). Once they’d been calmed down, he realized he needed something to occupy himself with so that he could stop feeling like absolute shit.

The bed was a logical thing (he _can_ be logical). It’s getting late. It’s almost time to go to bed. They need a place to sleep, _so_.

All it is, is some wood, some spare fabric from his room, and some old cushions. He built the frame to fit the cushions, he’s cut and sewn the fabric to make sheets and blankets. Still filled with restlessness, he decided to paint the frame so that it didn’t look completely depressing.

He painted it red, first, and then, because he still wanted something for his hands to do, he started painting it with long-stemmed flowers. It was accidental, the first snake that he added in amongst the flowers, but it felt right, so he kept adding them every so often. 

The lithe, green bodies weave in with the winding stems. He’s never sure (as he paints) if he’s going to end the shape with a snake head or with a blossom until the brush makes up his mind for him. 

It’s well bizarre, the bed frame. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you’d normally paint up for less-than-one-day-old infants, but the bodmai are not normal infants.

They’re immediately independent and mature. Well, physically, anyway. He can’t help but notice the way they seem to squabble over toys, the way they all seem desperate for approval from the others. They’re a bit like thirteen-year-olds, like they’re only half-baked and still need more time in the oven.

He tries to come up with names for them as he paints, but he gets stuck. The only one who gets a name that sticks is the one with the mohawk. He’s different from the others, carries himself like a leader, like he’s in charge of things. The others seem to notice it. They all flock around him. He has got the coolest hair, so Vince supposes it’s only natural.

Vince names him Slash after the Guns N’ Roses guitarist. 

It suits him well enough.

The only one who doesn’t seem inclined to fawn over him is Gadget. He holds himself a little apart, seems much more keen to keep Vince company than engage in any of the clowning the others are doing.

That seems natural too. He’s more or less their father; he’s probably trying to set a good example.

Any time Vince puts down a brush, he picks up his mobile and dials Naboo. No result, of course. There isn’t even a ring most of the time, just the sound of Naboo’s voicemail. After hearing it some seventy times, it’s drilled itself into his brain like an earworm. He’s going to be hearing that message in his sleep tonight.

He goes back over the final snake’s body, giving little accents of chartreuse to where its scales would glint in the sun. Once he’s done, it stares at him with not completely friendly yellow eyes. He sighs and sets down his brush.

“What do you reckon?” he asks Gadget.

The bodmai coos admiringly.

“Liar,” Vince says with a smile.

Gadget trills at him. Vince gives him a pat. He sets Gadget on the floor (he had been on the counter so that he could watch Vince at work) and then takes his brushes down to the bathroom. He shuts the door to rinse them and shuts the door when he’s done. He will not take a chance at getting any of the bodmai wet again. 

He does not pause at Howard’s door, or pay any mind to the discordant jazz that slips into the hall, he just walks the thousand or so miles back to the kitchen.

Vince has done everything he can think of to distract himself from the world falling apart, but in spite of his efforts, time has passed with little chunks of terra firma in it. He’s been left standing on a strip of land no thicker than the place on the floor where his boots touch.

He shuffles into the living room with Gadget in tow. The bodmai crowd around him like eager puppies as he slouches to the ground and leans back against the sofa.

He smiles at them and they show off for his attention until his novelty wears off and then they go back to trying to impress Slash. Only Gadget has time for him. He crawls into Vince’s lap for a cuddle. He seems aware, in a way the others aren’t, of how Vince is feeling. 

He and Vince stare up at the Christmas tree together. Once it got dark, he opened the curtains and saw that it was snowing. It looks picturesque and pretty, at least; the colored lights glinting off the ornaments, the snowfall flashing past the window; but it’s melancholy too, it looks how _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ sounds.

Vince takes out his phone and tries Naboo’s mobile once more (he’s goddamned Sisyphus with his fucking boulder) but of course, there’s nothing. He clicks the phone shut and puts it on the floor near his hip.

He still doesn’t know what to do.

His instinct is to ask Howard (that’s always his instinct) but he’s not speaking to Howard right now because Howard is a fucking dickhead.

It’s one thing to think Vince is thick (fuck it, he is, alright? He knows he is) but it’s another thing to act like everything is Vince’s fault when, first off, it’s not, and second off... who the fuck cares whose fault it is? They’re in the shit. It’s not the time to assign blame and arbitrate who is responsible for what.

It’s not just that, though, either. Howard treats him like he’s an irresponsible kid. Said, outright, that’s what he thinks Vince is. God, and, okay, maybe he should mind that more, but he honestly isn’t that bothered (it’s pretty fucking fair, after all) but... _What if I don’t want to?_

It’s all there, in that question.

Howard’s right. He shouldn’t have to clean up his messes, or take care of things for Vince, or… any of it. If he doesn’t want to, who could blame him?

Not Vince.

 _Not enough…_ that’s what he is.

What he’s always been.

He’d just hoped, wished, that this time, it could be different.

Because the truth is—

( _as little as it matters_ ) 

—Vince is in love with Howard. 

It’s not that hard, being in love. Not as hard as Vince always thought it would be. He’d always thought it would take some type of work, or effort, but it hasn’t. It just _is_ (like heat feeling hot, up being up, and other irrefutable facts).

He always thought the monotony would get him, or even the monogamy (just one person _forever?_ ) but since he’s touched Howard, he hasn’t wanted anyone else. It’s been so _simple_ and he’s just been letting it be, because he hasn’t needed to do anything. 

It’s just been growing away like grass in an unmown field (doesn’t need anything but sun and a bit of rain and it’ll get on just fine) but now he’s feeling the sting (how many times has he been told there was a sting?), the needles and pins scraping at his heart like a sequin shirt worn inside-out.

Because he thought that Howard was right there with him, and now (one row and a few comments too many later) he realizes he was wrong. 

Vince doesn’t know why he’s surprised, or even disappointed. Always been the same way for him and relationships anyway. Even if he hasn’t ever been chucked, it’s only because he knows when it’s time to do the chucking, and it’s roughly when the other person starts getting bored.

Because.

(He feels something constrict in his throat)

Vince.

(He’s said it before) 

(Because it’s true, he knows it is)

He hasn’t got anything inside.

He’s just a big, hollow beachball.

And once you’ve mapped out the surface of him (gone over his smooth expanses and rough seams) (with fingers, and teeth, and tongue), you’ve really got at it all.

There isn’t anything else.

People love Vince, but they don’t fall _in love_ with him. There isn’t anything to fall in love with, except in the shallowest, least meaningful sense.

He doesn’t know why he thought Howard might be different.

Gadget chirrups at him. He slips under Vince’s arm and snuggles into his side. Vince ruffles his ears.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, “I suppose I’m not being a whole lot of fun, am I?”

Gadget looks up at him, sympathy all over his adorable little face.

Vince sighs (massively). Back at the zoo, he used to talk to the animals, sometimes, on his own, when no one would hear what he was saying. It wasn’t like he delivered long, dark soliloquies about lost opportunity or something, but he did go and have a chat with a giraffe after Howard’s fake funeral, and another when Howard was mooning (ha) after that stupid Simon McFarnaby. There’s something soothing about airing concerns to someone who won’t (or can’t) say anything to anyone else. Clears everything right out.

But, Vince realizes, it’s not really Gadget he wants to talk to. He wants to talk to Howard. Even if he is a dickhead, it doesn’t stop what Vince feels. That’s the difference, then. If anyone else said to Vince what Howard has, it would have ended whatever spring of feeling he might have felt. It’d have been a death knell. But (with Howard) it’s still bloody there. It hasn’t gone away.

He still wants Howard to be the first person to hear the truth. He still wants to give Howard the last first he has to give (why?) ( _because_ ).

In a romantic context, Vince has never said, ‘I love you’ to anyone. He’s been saving it his whole life for when he actually felt it and, well, he feels it now. 

If he’s going to say it, even if it’s only once, he wants to say it to Howard, directly. He doesn’t need a practice go at hearing the truth come out of his mouth. He’s been saying it (without words) for months now.

He’s thought that he’d been catching an echo back, heard Howard answering him, silent, unspoken, but still _there_.

He’s been mistaken, is all. About that.

Even if Howard doesn’t love him (it’s alright) (it isn’t) (it’ll have to be), it doesn’t change what Vince feels.

He can’t change what he feels, but he can’t change what and who he is either (he wishes he could). He’ll always be silly, stupid Vince, who loves shiny things, and Christmas, and clothes, and styling his hair. He hasn’t got more to him. Open the door, there’s no one else home.

_Take what you can get and don’t ask for more, because you ain’t enough, Sunshine._

Never can be.

Gadget makes a forlorn coo, like he can read Vince’s thoughts.

Vince forces a smile, tries to summon up some cheer. Gadget isn’t buying it.

He’s never really been that good at fooling animals. Somehow, they see through things that are perfectly opaque to most humans. 

Vince sighs. He tries to think of something to say.

The electronic cheep of his phone has no meaning to him for a moment, but then (as the second note of _Cars_ descends into the third) he realizes what it is. 

He scrambles for the phone at his side. He’s so enthusiastic, that he knocks it under the sofa and he has to reach under it to grab it. He seizes it, nearly drops it in his haste to get it open. His ringtone starts looping again before he can actually get the phone to flip. “Naboo?” he asks eagerly.

“Vince,” says Bollo.

“Bollo! Christ, where are you?”

“Holding cell.”

“What? Over a playlist at a birthday party?”

Bollo grunts in affirmation.

“Jesus.” Vince is having a rubbish day, but Bollo has got to be having one just as bad. Shamen are bloody mental.

“Naboo want to know how things going.”

Vince laughs (no surprise, it sounds forced), “Oh, great. Really... um... good,” he says and thanks god Bollo isn’t a proper animal; whatever you need to have done to become a familiar makes you more human than not, apparently.

There is, though, quite a pause on the other end, like Bollo doesn’t exactly believe what Vince has just said. Vince can hear him breathing, otherwise, he’d have thought that they got disconnected. “Why it so noisy?” Bollo asks at length.

Vince looks at four of the bodmai who are engaged in an argument over a toy trumpet and a small drum set. Vince covers his mobile and shushes them. They toot the trumpet and bang on the drums, obviously thinking he’s trying to play with them. He waves suppressively at them; they just wave right back. 

He uncovers the receiver, “Uh... show’s on. Documentary. About ska.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Yeah.” He shifts Gadget out of his lap and walks into the kitchen where it’s a little quieter.

“You keep bodmai in Naboo’s room?”

“’Course,” Vince says. “Sure have. He’s... sleeping. So...”

“No break three rules?”

“Come on, Bollo. Only three rules, weren’t there? I think Howard and I can follow three rules.”

He watches the very obvious evidence of his and Howard’s inability to follow three rules as it uses toy cars like roller skates and crashes into the oven with a hollow bang. The bodmai falls flat on its arse, “Christy!” it squeaks. 

Vince retreats into the hallway.

“Hypothetically, though. If something did go wrong...?”

“What go wrong?”

“Nothing,” Vince says smiling falsely. “Just...” he swallows, “what do you think the response would be if there were maybe... seven more bodmai all the sudden? Not that there are, obviously, but if there _were_ , how do you suppose Naboo would take it?”

“Bad.”

“Yeah. Naturally,” Vince says. His hand tangles itself in the back of his hair and grabs at his roots. His hair is probably well fucked by now, but he can’t stop touching it. He reluctantly tucks his hand into his pocket. “Hey, Naboo’s not with you, is he?”

“He in meeting with Head Shaman.”

Vince feels relief and disappointment in equal measure. Naboo would figure out immediately that Vince was hiding something. Part of him knows that unless he actually says something, there isn’t going to be any help forthcoming, but he can’t make himself tell Bollo what’s happened. If he’s going to get yelled at again, he’d like to get yelled at by the source, rather than the source’s familiar. “Okay,” Vince says. “Are you coming home soon?”

“Bollo don’t know. Depends on grinding wheels of justice.”

“Right.” So, that sounds like it could take ages. (What if Naboo and Bollo don’t come home for _days_?) (Is that a possibility?) “Hey, you don’t know anything about what to do with um... extra bodmai?”

“No.”

“’Course not.”

Vince notices that the bodmai have gone quiet, which, somehow, seems worse than if they were shouting. He starts walking toward the living room, “Well, if you see Naboo, have him give us a ring? Maybe before he comes home, yeah?”

“Bad service out here, but I let him know.”

“Great. Cheers, Bollo.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Bollo say goodbye. He clicks his mobile shut and rounds the corner back into the kitchen. There is a moment when he doesn’t see any of the bodmai and he worries that they’ve gone down into the shop, but then he spots one of them hiding near the base of the tree and another one toddles into view, finds his friend, and Vince realizes they’re just playing hide and seek. He leans back against the wall in relief.

He’s going to lose his mind if this keeps up much longer.

He watches them play their game, unable to figure out what is supposed to make them so dangerous (still). They’re just cute, so far as he can tell. Just cute, and sweet, and, yeah, a little rambunctious, but they just aren’t menacing in any way. Sure, they can multiply faster than locusts and eat twenty times as much, but a sunny day would wipe them out. He just can’t reconcile the warnings he’s been given with what he knows about them.

He feels a tug on his trouser leg and looks down. It’s Slash.

“Yum-yums?” he says.

Vince looks at the clock on the oven. 11:45.

As much before midnight as you can get.

“It’ll have to be cold,” he warns him. Slash couldn’t care less. The other bodmai gather as he rummages through the refrigerator. There is a massive tray of fried chicken under some foil which he takes out and holds low so that they can grab it. They’re all over it. They eat like a pack of ravenous wolves. Gadget stands behind them all, looking a little apprehensive at the melee. Vince risks his fingers to grab a piece and he offers it to Gadget, but he refuses.

After they’ve eaten, they collectively seem to get quiet and tired. He lets them watch television while he sets up the bed on the floor in Naboo’s room and then, meekly, they follow him to bed. He tucks all of the new bodmai in, puts Gadget up on Naboo’s bed and pulls the covers over him. 

“Goodnight,” Vince says and Gadget replies with a tired, “Night night,” that makes Vince smile.

Soon, they’re all softly snoring away. It’s the only noise other than the occasional leaked spear of music coming through the wall from Howard’s room.

Vince goes out to get ready for bed himself. The dreary, gloomy jazz is louder outside Howard’s door. It hangs in the air like a toxic green funk. He sees his breath disturb the miasma and scatter it away. He won’t be able to sleep with that noise. It’ll have him in hives in minutes. He knocks on Howard’s door.

Howard’s there in the hall in a flash. His music is spilling out in all of its wretched, overly complex glory (Vince tried to get Howard to explain once, what, precisely, it is that he likes so much about jazz and Howard went into a forty-minute discussion of music theory that made Vince want to spray his brains across the wall) (if it takes that much explanation to enjoy, it really can’t be good) (no one needs to be told why they should like _Cars_ for fuck’s sake; they just do), the only light in the room is the red power button glowing on the record player. It’s like a particularly well-organized and dimly lit hell.

Howard looks surprised to see him.

“Can you shut that off?” Vince asks. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh. Sure,” he says, he shuffles backward into his room and picks the needle up off the record. He stands uncertainly in the dark with only the sound of the turntable motor for accompaniment. He flicks the switch and his room goes black but for the glowing, artificial light that comes through the shaded window. “I didn’t think you could hear it,” Howard says at last.

“I can’t in my room, but I was going to sleep in Naboo’s tonight.”

“Makes... sense.”

“Thanks for the approval,” Vince snipes.

Howard winces. It’s small comfort, but it feels good to see Howard on edge. Vince wants to keep him there because it proves he can at least make Howard do _something_. They look at one another without saying anything. Vince drums his fingers on the door jamb and then pushes off without saying ‘goodnight’ or ‘see you in the morning’ or any of the other things that he would normally.

“Vince,” Howard says. He’s come out into the hall. He catches Vince by the arm and holds him in place. Vince shoots Howard’s hand an icy glare. Howard’s arm falls away and swings limply at his side. He sags.

He looks ready to fall at Vince’s knees and beg (Vince wants to make him beg) (not a lot) (just a token offering would be good enough) (please). 

“Do you want me to... keep an eye?” Howard asks, “While you get ready?”

Vince tosses his hair, “Not much to keep an eye on. They’re asleep.”

“Okay. Well, I could—”

“Just go to bed, Howard.”

_Or say you’re sorry._

Howard doesn’t go to bed.

But he doesn’t say he’s sorry, either.

Vince waits for the words that don’t come. He waits a long time for them. Seconds tick by. Maybe a minute. But there’s nothing. He can’t believe it when they don’t manifest. It’s like having your mum and dad come home every day at 5:15 for eight years and then... they just don’t show and they’re gone. Forever.

Vince nods. _Okay_ , but it’s not okay in the slightest. He turns on his heel and goes into the bathroom. He listens to Howard’s steps as they retreat back into his own bedroom. He hears Howard’s door shut.

Vince gives himself a long look in the mirror and tries to remember what it was that had him so happy earlier that morning.


	8. Chapter 8

Turns out that what Dennis wants Naboo’s opinion on is a fucking Powerpoint presentation. 

He’s applying for a business loan and meeting with the bank the first week of the new year. He wants to open a shop.

Nothing that would make sense, like maybe a new age crystal and tea type of place, or a fortune teller’s, or a kiosk at a zoo, or even a fucking second-hand beneath a flat he owns in Dalston. What he wants to open is a haberdashery. That’s what he calls it. A haberdashery, like it’s eighteen-sixty-fucking-six.

Not the new kind of haberdashery, with kit for posh businessmen, stupid enough to drop 300 euros on a fucking pocket square, but a haberdashery that sells hats. Hats, as in the fashion accessory that haven’t been properly in style since the early sixties, or, again, since the 1860’s. 

The hats would be bad enough on their own, but the shop isn’t just going to have hats. Dennis makes that perfectly clear with a dismissive laugh that is shoehorned into the choreographed presentation like a juggernaut into a single car garage.

The second prong of this two-pronged business plan is _falconry_. It’s completely mad.

The presentation focuses a lot on the zone of ‘hat/falcon desert’ that apparently encompasses a good deal of South London; with reason, Naboo thinks, as he listens.

The presentation gets bonus points, though, for featuring Dennis’s wife (in varying stages of undress) posed with hats and hawks while surfing, roller blading, snowboarding, and doing a flip on a dirt bike (she’s posed with the bike above her head like it’s a hang glider, the falcon flies between her arms and the bike, its wings neatly tucked; they both wear matching tricorn hats). The whole thing feels a little like an acid trip, except the colors are too boring, and they aren’t telling him what they’re up to this weekend, so he knows that he’s actually seeing what he’s seeing.

Dennis delivers his pitch with bombastic self-assurance, like he’s positive that no one could doubt the efficacy of offering a two-hats-one-falcon-free sale as a summer promotion. Naboo doesn’t know what to say. He’s lucky Bollo has been put in a holding cell and isn’t watching this too. There’s no way they’d be keeping it together if there were both watching this shit show.

Dennis gets touchy if he thinks he’s being ridiculed, and even though someone really _should_ ridicule him for this, it definitely can’t be Naboo or Bollo. Not tonight, when Naboo needs all the allies he can get. 

Cruleficent can bully her way through everyone on the damn board if she really wants, has done in the past. She’s one of those old dowagers that bullies every town council with nothing more than a look and a snide comment, only with about seventy megatons of magical aptitude to back it up.

So, Naboo has to play the game. He listens to the presentation seven times, gives notes that are not as helpful as the one note he really wants to give which is _don’t do this_ , and hopes that he’s building stock by doing it.

Dennis is hoarse by the end of the seventh run-through. He clicks to the last slide to display the logo again. A falcon rises out of the exaggerated valley in a homburg hat, its wings spread in a way that is meant to look like an ‘H’ but really looks like an ‘M’ so that the logo looks like it reads _Maberdashery and Mawkwings_ instead of _Haberdashery and Hawkwings_.

Dennis says, “I do hope you’ll be persuaded to fund this venture, ladies and gentlemen. Let us end the cruel deprivation of adequate haberdashery to the people of London together.” As he’s done each time previous, he conjures a flash and a puff of smoke, like he’s some cheap birthday party magician, and bows.

“Wow,” Naboo says, once Dennis looks to him for his reaction.

“You think?” Dennis asks.

“Yeah. Powerful stuff, that.”

Dennis breaks into a grin, “I did think I really came into it this time.”

“Definitely.”

“I knew I could count on you to help me get this whole thing right. Do you know Tony Harrison had the nerve to tell me I was off my nut?”

“Really?” Naboo asks.

“Yes! And Kirk didn’t seem sold on the whole thing either. But you,” Dennis says, nodding sagely, “you are a shaman of the people. You live with those strange mortals, Howard and his paramour...”

“Vince,” Naboo suggests.

“Yes, Vince. I knew you’d be in better touch than they with what real people want.”

In Naboo’s experience, what real people want is one of three things: drugs, sex, or ceramic cats, but he’s not about to tell Dennis that. All he does is smile a little. “Yeah.”

Dennis switches off his laptop and then looks up, “Ah, would you look at the sky? I’d no idea we were occupied so long. We must gather Bollo and return to the grove for his hearing.”

Naboo nods, “I’ll fetch him up, shall I?”

“By all means.” Dennis hesitates before he adds, “You know, I am sorry about all this, Naboo.” He shakes his head sadly, “I’m afraid the less worldly of my shamen often find the ways of you and your familiar peculiar,” which is a polite way for Dennis to say that he knows Cruleficent is bleeding insane, “but I have always found you both an interesting addition to our order. I continue to value your approach.”

“Thanks,” Naboo says. He can only hope he’s played the Head Shaman well enough to have him sympathetic. He needs this to go quick.

Naboo goes down to the holding cell, which is located in a sheltered gulley. It’s just a bunch of sticks sharpened into points. Bollo looks up at him, his strange blue eyes troubled.

“You get in touch with Vince?” Naboo asks.

Bollo grunts and gives a single nod.

“And?”

Bollo deliberates a long time, too long, before he says, “Bollo think everything probably okay.”

Naboo opens the holding cell and Bollo shuffles out, “What’s happened?”

“Vince no say.”

“What did Vince say?” Naboo asks. If there is one thing that’s been clear from day one, it’s that, familiar or not, Bollo’s heart lies with Vince. Vince, after all, was the first one to get him behind a turntable, the first one to start treating Bollo as a proper person. Their bond would be a liability if Naboo wasn’t so well aware of it.

Bollo hesitates again, “He say... everything fine. Bodmai asleep. He say... uh...”

“What else, Bollo?”

Bollo hangs his head, “He say Naboo should give call before he coming home.”

“That sounds suspicious,” Naboo says.

Bollo shrugs. 

“Give me my mobile,” he demands. Bollo hands it over. Naboo flips it open and the phone is dark, “What’s this?”

“No batteries,” Bollo says. “Ran out.”

“That’s perfect,” Naboo says, irritated by literally everything tonight. He shoves his mobile in his pocket and starts hiking up out of the gulley. “You’re sure everything is okay?”

Bollo just slumps along behind him, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Got any bad feelings, Bollo?” Naboo prompts again.

There is only the sound of their feet plodding through the frost covered leaves. An owl hoots distantly. The gorilla sighs, “Yes.”

“Thought so.” 

Naboo has ferreted out the truth, not that it matters. Bollo only gets the vaguest premonitions. That something is going wrong isn’t a surprise, he’d already suspected as much. It was bound to. 

But he doesn’t know what has gone wrong and until he gets out of here, he won’t. He stops Bollo, “Listen, don’t cause trouble in there. We have to make this quick and get back to the flat as soon as possible. Let me handle it, yeah?”

Bollo nods.

Dennis meets them in the woods. “Let us go,” he says grandly.

They go.

Howard hovers just at the edge of sleep, not quite able to fall completely over. He hears the half-dreamed sound of Vince’s footsteps. Vince is sneaking back into his room after using the shower. They’ve made love and he’s going to want another round because Naboo’s gone and he always likes to take advantage when they’re alone. Howard’s prick thickens in anticipation. Vince’s mouth on his, Vince’s fingers unlacing Howard’s pajamas, his palm cupping Howard’s balls; his breath is moist and warm as he crawls down Howard’s body. He’s going to—

The pounding on the door startles Howard out of whatever half-dream he was in.

He stumbles out of bed and directly into a wall. He pings away from it like a drunk goldfish, remembering that he’s in his own room and not Vince’s. He drifts toward his door, rubbing his face. “Howard!” Vince says urgently and the memory of the entire evening slams into place like an ill-shifted gear. He knows that something must be wrong if Vince has bothered to come find him after… everything. 

He rips his door open and is met with Vince’s pale face swimming in the darkened hallway like a specter.

“Howard, something...” he says, trailing off. He dashes toward Naboo’s room. Howard shrugs into his dressing gown and follows him.

Naboo’s bedside lamp is on, dully glowing underneath a diaphanous orange scarf. The room is dim. Howard looks around to see what has Vince so alarmed. All he sees at first is Gadget sitting in the middle of Naboo’s bed, looking up at him, with large, reproving eyes. He doesn’t see, until Vince crouches over them, the seven, black-brown pods glistening slickly in the orange-tinted light.

They’re nestled in some type of miniature bespoke bed and covered in sticky looking webs. They’re cocoons. The webs shimmer like they’re made of glitter or ice as Howard approaches the eggs. There is a scent vaguely of sulfur, almost like an egg that’s been overboiled. Howard stops, keeps a healthy distance between himself and the strange pods that gleam with oily menace.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I don’t know!”

Howard looks around the room. He doesn’t see any of the other bodmai, just Gadget. A quick reckoning confirms what Howard is beginning to suspect. “These are them, right? The bodmai?”

“Yeah,” Vince says, “it must be. They’re all gone. Christ!”

“Calm down,” Howard says. He doesn’t often get to tell Vince to calm down. Pretty much exclusively when there are jumble sales in posh neighborhoods or bogo events on boots; times like these, it’s usually Howard who loses his cool, not Vince. “You’re sure nothing happened?”

“I’m sure,” Vince says. “Nothing happened. I fed them some dinner and then I put them to bed.”

“What time—”

“It wasn’t after midnight, Howard!” Vince snaps. “I checked.” Vince’s expression shifts, he goes from annoyed to uneasy in a blink, “I checked,” he insists again as he pushes by Howard. He runs into the kitchen, “No, no, no...” he chants.

“What?” Howard calls after him.

“The clock, the clock on the stove. It’s stopped! Fuck. Howard...” he says, returning to Naboo’s room. He combs both hands through his hair, tugs on the ends of it before he flings his arms out wide, “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He looks at the cocoons with tight horror written on his features, an expression that, unfairly, actually makes him somehow more beautiful than normal. It’s those damned eyes, Howard thinks. He looks away from Vince, “It was an accident,” he says. 

He’s determined to handle this better than he handled the last disaster. He has to.

The cocoons are glinting evilly. There is something about the way the light hits them, or rather, seems to refuse to hit them, that is making Howard nervous. He feels suppressed bubbles of panic tingling under his skin, but something about having Vince go all to pieces is keeping him calm. It’s almost like Vince is doing the work of worrying for him so Howard can concentrate on other things. Howard takes a deep breath, “We don’t know what’s happening. It could be fine.”

“It’s not fine, Howard,” Vince says, as though Howard has completely lost his mind, “Obviously, it’s not fine! Jesus, how fucking stupid am I?” Vince says, pacing, “I should’ve—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Howard insists over him.

Vince freezes in place. He blinks, “It’s not,” he says. 

Howard wants to reach out to him, to touch him, to fold him up into his arms, because it’s obvious that Vince is about to cry again, but Howard doesn’t know where the boundaries are anymore. He doesn’t know if he’s still welcome.

“We can figure this out,” Howard says instead. _I’m back on the team!_ Late in the game, sure, but he’s back, and he’s not going anywhere again.

If Vince will have him, anyway.

Not that he’s going to be much help. This is well out of his purview.

But Vince seems to take comfort from what Howard has said. He combs his fingers though his hair and nods, “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

He’s waiting, Howard can see, for Howard to say something else. He wants Howard with him. Even after what Howard has said.

Howard wants to be there so badly. It’s like it was in the hall before, when every single one of the apologies he’d come up trip over themselves in their rush for him to utter them. Somehow, not one of them clambers to the fore. None of them sound adequate.

He needs a _more than adequate_ apology. He needs a complete and utter abasement, a good old fashioned grovel session, a prolonged period of prostration... he needs to do whatever it takes to get Vince to forgive him, even if it makes him look pathetic.

He’s going to do all of it as soon as he can possibly find a start, but he can’t, and Vince...

_What if it isn’t enough?_

Instead, he says, “Okay, so, probably then, this is what happens when they’re fed after midnight.”

“Shit,” Vince says, tensing up again, “I can’t believe—”

“Nothing for it now,” Howard says quickly.

Vince nods, “Okay,” he repeats. He’s stabilizing, calming down. “Don’t suppose you’ve got... an idea?” he asks, haltingly. Like he’s afraid to ask.

Howard feels guilt fall over him like a deluge of rain. He’s done that; made Vince hesitant. _Do better, Howard_. 

He will. He has to.

He needs a closer look at the cocoons. He shuffles uneasily past the side of Naboo’s bed. He forces himself forward, toward the stink that becomes more and more obvious the closer to them he gets. He keeps his eyes on a single painted flower on the bedframe, pretends to himself that he’s bending to look at Vince’s handiwork rather than the cocoons. His eyes shift, though, and he ends up staring into the face of a snake with its fangs bared. 

There will be time for him to reflect on Vince’s mood getting expressed through his art later; right now he needs to convince himself to get a good look at the pods. He crouches down and looks up.

Up close, they look more insectile. They look almost precisely like black butterfly pupae. It would be Vince’s luck, Howard thinks, if that’s all that happened. They went in looking like cute caterpillars and came out like beautiful butterflies, but the cold dread in his gut insists otherwise.

Vince sits down behind him on Naboo’s bed and pulls his knees into his chest, looking like a lost street urchin in his oversized pajama bottoms and ratty, old t-shirt. Gadget chirps and coos at him until Vince puts an arm around him. The pair of them appear to take comfort from one another. Howard wishes that he could join them, that he could put an arm around Vince and all three of them could feel reassured, physically, by the presence of the others. 

He realizes that he should apologize to Gadget for how he treated him earlier. He needs to apologize to both of them for how he acted.

_Deal with the problem in front of you._

That’s all Howard can do.

“Well, I was thinking,” Howard says at last, “Maybe magic has failed us, yeah? But we still have science.”

Vince laughs. He tilts his head to the side, and looks at Howard sidelong, “Got a chemistry set you want to try out?” he asks, and it’s so very nearly normal.

“No,” Howard says, “but I do have Lester.”

Vince’s face bunches in confusion, “Lester _Corncrake_?”

“Yeah.”

“Jazz club Lester Corncrake?”

“Yeah!” Howard says.

“What’s he got to do with science?”

“He’s a biomedical engineer.”

“No, he’s not. He’s a freaky old jazz cat who sells hand-rolled cigarettes out of a shoebox in Stoke Newington.”

“There’s more to him than that,” Howard says, so relieved that Vince is taking the piss that he’s not even up to offering token offense on his friend’s behalf. “Biomedical engineering is his day job. He likes to keep a low-profile.”

“A two-inch profile.”

“The man is a genius, Vince.” He adds a dash of annoyance to his tone, ready to dance like this if Vince is. _Things are a-okay!_ and Vince picks up on it right away.

“Is he?” he asks, his voice softened by a disbelieving smile. _They sure are!_

“Yes!”

“Alright,” Vince says, “Fine. Ring him up if you like. What’s he going to do, though?”

“Experiments.”

“Experiments,” Vince says, a dubious echo of Howard’s statement.

“Yes, experiments. He’s going to get to the bottom of this. You’ll see.”

“Whatever,” Vince says.

It’s almost right, the whole pattern, the whole game, but Howard knows what it is. It’s buying them time. It’s sweeping something under the rug. They haven’t, _he_ hasn’t, solved anything. 

It can get better. It will get better. He’s trying optimism for a change. If he wasn’t, he’d be coiled on the floor in a ball, and he can’t afford to do that right now.

Vince picks up Gadget from Naboo’s bed and carries him into the living room while Howard goes into his bedroom and grabs his rolodex. He sets it on the kitchen island and spins the nob at the side and the little pages flap until he gets to Lester’s number.

Vince watches him with a mix of amusement (silly Howard and his love of passé office supplies) and something less pleasing. Howard can’t put his finger on what it is until he realizes that it isn’t something that’s there, but something that’s missing. He’s not been able to do so much as touch a biro without Vince salivating after him like a dog in heat since it started between them.

It could be stress, of course, or it could be that Vince is slowly turning that part of his brain off and if that’s gone... 

He doesn’t know if he could go back to being just friends with Vince. In fact, he knows he can’t; but what if that’s what he’s cost himself?

They are in a very serious situation, but he can’t stop himself from making a bit of a show out of dialing the rotary telephone. Even if Howard hasn’t been able to understand the reason, he does have a pretty fair idea at this point of what turns Vince on. This is pretty much it. Howard, in socks, slippers and a dressing gown, doing something hopelessly old-fashioned. 

He slips his finger into the round for the first number and guides the rotary all the way around, tectonically slow. He lets it whirr back completely before he dials the next number; he punctuates the little ding with a deliberative swoop of his finger around the dial. He even fudges the fourth number so that he has to hang up and start over. All the while, he surreptitiously watches Vince, but Vince is sitting on a stool with Gadget on his lap and not paying him any mind.

Howard wonders if he should try something more overtly sexual, like chewing on the cord a little or winding it around his finger, to earn himself a glance, but he’s not sure how sexy either of those two options are, particularly given the years of accumulated dust on the wire, and he’s still wondering when he hears Lester shout “Hello,” into the phone.

Howard holds it away from his ear.

“Lester,” he says. “Any chance you’re available? In a bit of a scrape over here.”

“Howard. It’s two A.M.”

“Oh…er… right, sorry—” 

“Of course, I’m available.”

They ring off and Howard goes down to the shop to meet him. Realistically, it doesn’t take long for Lester to arrive. Perhaps no more than a quarter of an hour, but it feels like it takes far longer than that, as he stands alone in the dark shop. 

Howard could use the time to fix the electrical, but he doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to move from the center of the shop floor, from the rug that, he realizes, must have come from Vince’s room. It’s a piece of Vince, a little island of him for Howard to cling to. 

He hears Vince’s footsteps overhead. He pads around the flat, doing who knows what. He’s so close, just above him... very much where he always has been.

Howard had half-hoped that he would want to wait with him downstairs, but he’d been too terrified to hear a _no_ if he asked him, and Vince hadn’t bestirred himself when Howard had told him where he was going.

So, Howard waits alone.

When Lester does get there, he stomps the snow off his shoes. He’s brought a black bag with him, the sort of bag Howard can imagine James Harriot bringing with him on a farm call. Howard hopes it will have everything they need in it. 

He leads Lester upstairs and into Naboo’s room, listening as the old man rambles on about experiments for them to try in between little cloudbursts of scat singing.

Vince makes a face at the impromptu jazz invasion, but he still slides off his perch in the kitchen and follows them down the hallway. He doesn’t say a word as he creeps in behind them and sits on Naboo’s bed with Gadget. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders. Gadget snuggles against him and Vince wraps him up in his arms again, holding onto him like he’s a teddy bear.

It’s fucking adorable. 

Howard can’t help sneaking glances in his direction.

If Howard acting like an anal-retentive, outdated nerd is Vince’s kink, Vince in nothing more than pajamas and blankets, all casual and cute, is Howard’s. The patterns on his t-shirt and pajama bottoms clash even more than Vince normally allows them to, the blue lips do not even remotely go with the pastel kaleidoscope of stars on the bottoms, and neither article matches the socks he’s wearing (one red, one a check patterned orange). He looks like he’s dressed himself in the dark. 

Needless to say, Vince would never go out _anywhere_ like this.

Not that Howard doesn’t like the outfits, he appreciates Vince’s outlandish style more than he’d ever admit, but Vince is so much more touchable, so much more accessible, like this. It’s almost like he’s just for Howard, a rare bird that hides when it molts, and permits no one but Howard to see him unfinished. 

And Naboo, and Bollo, but they don’t properly count. 

Point is, he looks nice, and Howard notices.

Vince doesn’t notice him noticing. 

Might be a first, that.

Lester kneels at the foot of the bodmai’s nest, holding a stethoscope out to the carapace of the cocoon. He listens. He withdraws the stethoscope and puts it back into the black bag. “Oooeee, something is cooking away in there, yessirree. Hot gumbo, coming down the pipe!”

Lester pokes the cocoon, draws away a long trail of slime that he then tastes. He smacks his lips and deliberates, like he’s trying to figure out if he likes it or not. Vince reacts with a grimace that Howard does his best to keep from echoing. Lester takes out an otoscope and switches on the light. He holds it close to the cocoon, examining it carefully.

Then Howard remembers he’s blind. He does not look over at Vince. He already knows what he would see if he did. Instead, he chooses to believe that Lester is getting something out of this farcical exercise. “Do you know what it is, Lester?” he asks.

Lester cackles, “Don’t be ridiculous, Howard. This is a big ol’ mystery wrapped up in an enigmatic taco shell dipped in high jinks cheese sauce.”

“Have you ever _heard_ of anything like this?” Howard pleads.

Lester thinks for a moment, “Can’t say that I have.”

“Great,” Howard says. They are resolutely stuck on square one.

“But...” Lester says. Howard leans forward eagerly, “I could always cut one open and see what kind of crazy mess monster falls out.”

Howard is willing to consider anything at this point, but Vince immediately interjects, “Are you insane? Wouldn’t that kill whatever it is?”

“Well, that’s a risk we’d have to take. For more information-facts, you gotta make some eggy-cracks,” Lester says, with a snicker.

Vince makes a face, looks at Howard _please do something._

“Uh... let’s assume that we don’t want to do that,” Howard says. “There’s nothing else?”

“I could always shoot one with my portable X-ray and see what’s in there that way.”

Howard brightens immediately, “Yeah, that sounds—”

Lester cackles again and slaps his knee, “I’m just kidding. That’s not even a real thing, doofus!”

Howard shakes his head, “Why would you—”

“So, there’s nothing you can do, then?” Vince asks, sounding very put out.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Lester says. He fishes around in his bag and takes out what looks very much like a pool-testing kit, “I can take some samples and run some tests.”

“Alright,” Vince says, “but don’t do anything that might hurt them, yeah?”

“Upon my honor,” Lester says.

Vince rolls his eyes. Gadget coos and Lester suddenly snaps toward the source of the noise, “What’s that?”

“Oh,” Vince says, his arms fold more tightly around the bodmai, “it’s just… Gadget.”

“He’s one of the things that is in the pod,” Howard says, “Sort of a larval stage, I suppose.”

“Well, why didn’t you say you had one of them around? I could probably learn a lot from getting a little peekie poodle at him.”

Vince does not look at all inclined to let Lester get any kind of peek at Gadget. “I don’t think so,” he says, “why don’t you stick to the cocoons.”

“Vince,” Howard says, gently. Vince’s eyes flash and Howard knows that he’s got to come down on the right side of this issue. If he presses Vince to let Lester take a look at Gadget, Lester had better do it without causing any distress to him. “I’m sure Lester just means to give him an exam. Right, Lester?”

“I won’t do nothing, except draw a little blood, extract some good ol’ fashioned deoxyribonucleic acid,” he pulls out an absolutely _massive_ needle.

Howard’s teeth clench and bare themselves. Gadget’s eyes go the size of pancakes before he tucks his head under Vince’s arm.

Vince covers the back of his head with his hand and rubs him soothingly, “Uh, not with that you’re not.”

“It’ll just be a quick little poke; he’ll barely feel it.”

“Absolutely not,” Vince says. His hackles are almost visibly rising.

“Okay, he’s said no, Lester. Best forget it,” Howard says, immediately. “Let’s just focus our efforts on these… er… things, here.” He reaches out for a cocoon and makes the mistake of actually touching it. It’s sticky. Thick goo coats his palm and pulls away in a long trail when he withdraws his hand.

“Someone sure is whipped,” Lester says with a chuckle.

It’s not like Lester knows about them, but it’s suddenly awkward. Vince obviously doesn’t appreciate the comment. He’s glaring at Lester like he wants him to implode on the spot. Lester is, of course, oblivious.

“Y-eah,” Howard agrees, “that’s me.” He wipes his hand on his dressing gown and leaves a thick mucosal smear on his chest, “What do you say we bring these out into the kitchen? More space out there and all.”

“Fine by me,” Lester says.

Howard positions himself on one side of the bed and Lester goes to stand on the other, but Vince says, “Let me.” 

Lester agrees and heads out into the kitchen ‘to get set up’. Whatever that can mean.

Vince gets up and tucks Gadget into the cavern of blankets like he doesn’t completely trust that Lester won’t barge back in and try to claim him for testing. He moves opposite Howard.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Yeah. Sure. No need to thank me. You’re… you know, in charge of Gadget.” _In charge of everything_.

Vince sniffs a laugh, “Alright.”

Together, they pick up the bed and carry it into the kitchen. Lester has already set up a Bunsen burner, some Erlenmeyer flasks, and a small army of test tubes. He’s also produced a white coat from somewhere.

Vince takes in the glassware that has popped up on their kitchen island like a fungal bloom, “Do _not_ let him kill one.”

“I won’t,” Howard promises.

They set the bed down on the only clear space left on the counter. Lester is whistling _(Everybody’s Waiting for the) Man with the Bag_ as he mixes up chemicals using nothing more than his sense of hearing. 

Howard does not feel nervous watching him do it. He feels petrified. The flat has at least a seventy percent chance of exploding.

He remembers the spanners. Oh, how he remembers the spanners.

He pretends to an air of nonchalance, though, as he stands face to face with Vince. 

Vince’s eyebrow quirks. He’s doing that thing he does, sometimes. He’s reading the thoughts behind Howard’s eyes like he’s a 1920’s stockbroker and Howard’s brainwaves are being transmitted to him on ticker tape. Howard wishes he could do it all the time, then he’d know—

“Okay,” Vince says, “I’m going to go keep Gadget company, stay out of the way and all.”

“You wouldn’t be—”

“Yeah, I would.” Vince gives him a little smile. _I don’t mind_.

“Okay,” Howard says. He agrees because he doesn’t know what else to do. “I’ll come get you if anything happens.”

“Cheers,” Vince says. He hesitates, “Give me your dressing gown, yeah? I can put it in the sink or something, get some of that goop off before it dries. If you want.”

Howard looks down at himself, “Oh, yeah. Um, thanks,” he says as he unties the belt of the dressing gown. He shrugs out of it and hands it to Vince. Their fingers brush under the warm terrycloth, the first time they’ve touched (amicably) since before their fight. 

“Uh,” Howard says, not relinquishing the dressing gown when Vince tugs on it.

Vince looks over at Lester.

Yeah, it’s neither the time nor the place. 

Howard smiles at Vince, Vince smiles back. 

Howard lets go of the dressing gown and Vince takes it with him down the hall.

Howard watches him the whole way. He claps his hands together, “Alright, Lester, let’s get to work.”

Vince hears the sounds of science happening in the kitchen. Doesn’t sound precisely how you’d expect. It’s a lot of swearing, and clinking glass, and chemical hisses, and hisses that he’s pretty sure come from Howard gasping in alarm. Vince is sure that Lester plus volatile chemicals is probably enough to put Howard straight over the edge (“Liquid nitrogen? Jesus, Lester, what the hell do you have that for?”) (just for fun, apparently) but he’s out there, keeping it together.

Vince and Gadget are laying down on Naboo’s bed. Gadget has fallen asleep again. Vince can only listen wakefully to the controlled chaos happening out in the flat proper. 

Some nights seem endless. Like you’ve always been in the dark. Like time is ignoring you completely. That’s how this night is passing. The darkness just stretches on and on, like a gob of taffy pulled at both ends until it stretches out across a whole football pitch, impossibly long, and thin, and frail, but still stretching out forever. He’s in a delicate forever.

What he wants (more than anything) is to go back about twelve hours. Before that stupid Uno game, before the row with Howard. Time, however, though it may stand still, never goes backwards. It might crawl, but it only crawls in one direction. Pretty bullshit of it, really. 

Howard has got more to say to him. Vince sees it on his face every time they look at one another. What’s he going to say? Probably, it’s been fun _but_ … something like that. Who knows?

Certainly not Vince, not yet.

There’s a pop and a snap in the kitchen (“That’s hydrochloric acid, Lester!”) (“My bad, got my vials mixed up!”) and a smell akin to burning hair. Hopefully, there will be enough left of Howard after science times to say to Vince whatever he wants to say, even if it is _the end_.

Vince rolls onto his back and stares up at Naboo’s ceiling. There are a million glowing stars on it. They look like cheap glow-in-the-dark stickers, but there are so many of them, so carefully clustered and arranged, that Vince knows that they’re not. It’s some kind of magic that Naboo’s done. 

He sort of wants to ask him if he could do it to his room. That’ll be what he does, he decides, if Howard does break it off with him. That way, he can spend his sleepless nights staring up at an entire universe of lonely, untouchable beauty. 

Proper melancholy, that. 

Howard would be proud.

There’s another pop (like shattering glassware) then Howard swears (“The floor!”) and Vince hears him scrambling, pulling open drawers and cabinets, until ( _whoosh_ ) and then there is silence. Vince strains to hear anything in the kitchen. There’s a very real possibility that they’ve accidentally manufactured some sort of toxic gas out there, but then he hears Howard say, “Okay, well, I’m not sure that’s taught us anything.”

Lester just cackles.

He’s a blind mad scientist. Howard is his limping Igor, doing his best to serve his master’s wishes. Doesn’t sound like it’s going well.

Nothing Vince can do about it. 

He closes his eyes and does his best to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Howard has lost track of what time it is. It’s got to be rounding four AM. It’s still dark, and his eyes are starting to hurt from the strain of being awake for so long, from the chemical fume cocktail his safety glasses do not adequately filter, and from the strain of keeping Lester from killing them. That last is more than a bit of bother. 

Goes about as well as you’d expect, Lester and toxic chemicals. 

Lester honestly believes that he’s got everything well in hand. He confidently reaches for each bottle he grabs without any hesitation. Howard keeps his eyes trained on each one, but Lester sometimes reaches for two at once, one in each hand, and Howard has to choose between looking at one or another for a millisecond that occasionally turns disastrous when he choses incorrectly.

Then, there are the times when Lester misses the tray he’s pouring into and something hisses out onto the tile counter or onto the floor or _wherever_ and then Howard has seconds to neutralize the chemical, if he needs to neutralize it. Sometimes, there are just puddles created. 

Overall, their kitchen floor looks like they’ve adopted a dog with no housetraining and a microscopic bladder. Howard tries to clean up as they go along, but Lester works ceaselessly, and if Howard is cleaning, he’s not watching, and, well, watching is probably the more necessary of the two tasks at hand, so puddles accumulate and spills stain the counter, layering over one another like sloppily applied paint.

The mess, the stress, might all be worth it if they’d learned _anything_ whatsoever from all the experiments, but, since they haven’t, it all feels increasingly pointless. 

It hasn’t been completely pointless, though. Howard has learned one thing. 

He’s learned, biomedical engineer or not, Vince was absolutely right about Lester. He’s a mad old idiot, and Howard should never have called him. So, there is that.

Thinking that, of course, leads him to think of Vince and the unfinished conversation they need to have, and what will happen after, and that snowballs into him imagining finding a new place to live and a new job since, if they break up, Howard won’t be able to stand being in such close quarters with Vince any more. It will only be his due if he has to be the one to do both of those things.

His thoughts lead him to neglect watching Lester, to stop watching much of anything, except for a slow-motion replay of the few brief months of his and Vince’s relationship, whatever it is... _or was_. He remembers their first night together, when it felt like they were two halves snapping into an indisputable whole. 

He remembers a lot of sex, to be honest. There has been a lot of it to remember, and most of it has been, frankly, rather memorable; he’s made up for years of sexual famine with months of decadent sexual feast. 

But he also remembers the other things.

He remembers the time they went out for curries and then walked through the park at sunset almost like they were on a proper date; the first time Vince slipped his hand into his while they were sitting on the sofa _just because_ ; waking up in Vince’s bed with his nose full of the scent of Vince’s hair, his arms full of Vince himself, and just watching him sleep; the time Howard had a cold and Vince wouldn’t let him work the shop, and then brought him pho from the Vietnamese that they both like; the time they got ice creams and Howard dropped his on the ground almost instantly and Vince had laughed, practically until he cried... but he still gave Howard the rest of his own.

Vince and he, cutting through an alley, Howard eating the last of the ice cream cone while Vince giggled. “It’s not that funny,” Howard had said, snappishly.

“Course it is.” Vince wobbled, pantomimed Howard dodging out of the way of the little shit on his bike that had caused him to drop it in the first place, “And splat, down it goes. Only you could actually have something out of an advert for antidepressants happen to you,” Vince had said. 

He glanced up at Howard, his eyes alight with amusement. They flicked down. He put his hand on Howard’s arm and stopped him. “Here, you’ve got...”

Vince reached up and wiped Howard’s moustache with his thumb. He examined the thin stripe of cream he had collected before he popped his thumb into his mouth and sucked it clean.

Howard remembers how they’d stood in the alley, Vince just across from him. He remembers Vince’s eyes sliding one way and then the next. He remembers the pressure on his chest from Vince’s hands as he leaned against him, the quick flutter of Vince’s lips against his, the briefest glance of Vince’s tongue across his top lip. 

“Just wanted to make sure I got it all,” Vince had said with a cheeky smile when he came down off his toes.

The best thing Howard has ever had, _and he’s ruined it._

“Well, lookie here!” Lester says suddenly. The tray in front of him is smoking. Howard springs into motion, thinking that there’s been another mishap, but then he realizes that it’s one of the samples of cocoon they’ve been working with and it’s safely housed within a petri dish. It fizzes, and, like a snake firework, sprouts straight up until it tips over to the side and topples onto the counter.

“What did you do?” Howard asks.

“Put a drop of H2O on it,” Lester says. “That’s interesting,” he says. “Nothing happens with anything but pure water, or, I suppose, pure-ish water. So many chemicals and waste products these days in your average cup of drinking water that it’s practically a slurry, but any type of solution seems to do nothing. You’ve been recording these results, right Howard?”

“Uh… yeah,” Howard says. He had been recording the results, but he stopped after the twentieth fruitless experiment. Just seemed like a waste of paper, plus he’s been a bit occupied with keeping them alive.

“Good, we should be able to pinpoint exactly how much water is needed for a reaction. I’ll just start working backward from pure water and…”

Lester trails off. His head twitches to the side. He turns toward the cocoons.

They’re moving.

They’re _**MOVING**_.

They sound like rustling leaves as they shift, almost imperceptibly, back and forth. Howard takes a step backward. 

Lester walks toward them. He reaches out to one, puts his hands on the side of it. He runs his hands across the exterior in a gentle caress. Howard notices that the carapace looks drier. Slime doesn’t come away on Lester’s hands, anyway, as he slides them over the skin. 

The surface ripples. Hands or feet seem to press at the shell of the cocoon, like something alive inside the thin walls of a balloon. A face presses against the pliant shell.

Skeletal cheekbones, pointed chin, and razor wire fangs stretch a quick impression before they recede. 

A single, black claw punctures the top of the pod, then spiny fingers push out of the gap.

“Lester,” Howard warns, but his voice is only a whisper, stolen from him by the thing that is beginning to emerge.

The fingers wiggle out further, emerging like bony earth worms out of mud, then they curl around the edges of the opening. The cocoon tears open as the creature within prises the gap wider. The sound of silk carelessly torn, the sound of hot tomato sauce spilling onto pavement— the cocoon sloughs away. 

Lester gropes forward and takes the flopped over edges of the cocoon in his hands. The cocoon is draped over them like a discarded dress. Placental goop slides out over the counter. It looks very much like unset strawberry jam, but it smells like something that needs urgent burying. Howard’s face wrinkles at the unpleasantness of it.

Something newly born rises to its feet.

It’s skinny. Sharp bones. Sharp limbs. Claws, fangs, spines down its back. Mottled green skin, slicked up with the juice of its birth. Massive ears and eyes; those are the two only things that can even remotely place the creature standing in front of Lester as formerly being a bodmai. 

Where the bodmai were a study in harmlessness, this thing is a study in acuminate, spiny _harm_. 

Lester sets down the cocoon. He tentatively reaches forward. His fingertips come into contact with the creature’s sneering face, “Hello, there,” he says while the others hatch.

They hatch one after another, almost like they are eager to catch up now that one of them has jumped. They emerge and stand. They wait.

Last of all is the one with the mohawk. He shakes himself free of the goop, it spatters Lester a little and Lester giggles. It occurs to Howard that he has no idea that the thing he’s touching has teeth like a piranha and, now, a pack to go with it.

The mohawked creature rasps a harsh, gasping chuckle. He points at Lester.

The new creatures, the monsters, they explode into sudden motion. They’ve had their cue at last. Howard watches in horror as the one in front of Lester leaps at his face. It wraps its arms around the back of his head and Lester staggers back, his arms flailing. He scats in shock.

Another of the creatures leaps from the counter onto the floor. A third vaults over to the oven, flips it on.

Lester fights to pry the creature that clings to his head away from his face, but the _thing_ hanging onto him pulls his hair, tosses its head back and laughs. It sinks its teeth into Lester’s hat and shakes it in its mouth like a rabid chihuahua. Lester ties to bat the thing away, but it’s useless. He slips in some of the chemical mess and his arms windmill. His leg kicks up to help stabilize himself and the one on the floor grabs him by the ankle. He yanks backward on Lester’s leg and Lester spins like a figure skater. All of the creatures scream with twisted laughter.

Howard is forcibly reminded of school yard ruffians forming up in a gang to egg each other on, but these things have better organizational skills than any gang of kids. 

The one on the floor tugs open the oven door, its compatriot on the oven leaps off the counter and grips Lester around the thigh and bites down hard enough to draw blood.

Howard is frozen in place in the midst of this chaos. Possibly, it’s the only thing that has kept him from becoming a target, because the second he takes a step toward Lester to try and help him, the leader of these new horrible, not-bodmai hisses and the other three spring at him like demented kangaroos.

Howard yelps and narrowly avoids getting jumped on by the forerunner. It lands and slides in some chemical residue and skates into the wall. It shakes its head, regathers it senses, while the other two stalk toward Howard menacingly. 

Howard takes a few steps backward, “Hey, there, we don’t have to…” he says, but it’s apparent from the looks they’re giving him that _he_ might not have to, but they _do_.

He has a split second to decide what to do. In the end, though, there’s really only one option. 

He turns and runs. 

The creatures give chase. 

There are not a whole lot of places to run to. Howard runs toward the stairs, but he’d as soon lead these things down to the shop as he would cut his own arm off. He turns just at the coat rack, grabs one of Vince’s long dusters and chucks it back at his pursuers. He hopes to cover them in it, slow them a bit, but his aim is poor, and the coat is too light, all it does is flutter ineffectually to the floor like a wet flag. The creatures trample over it.

Howard sprints, quick as he can, past the turret, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears. Behind him, he hears footfalls, snapping teeth, hissing cackles; the very sounds of hell directly at his heels. He glances back and regrets it. They are only inches from him, even the one that had crashed into the wall has caught up. It shadows its fellows, the peak in an increasingly acute triangle of doom.

He puts on an extra bust of speed, dashes into the living room and past the Christmas tree. He tips it over behind him, thinking as he does, that Vince isn’t going to be happy about all the smashed ornaments, but he can’t think of anything else to slow them down.

He might as well not have bothered. It takes more time to tip it than it does for the things to vault it. They jump it like horses in a steeplechase, like they’re hunters going over hedges, and Howard is a marked fox. Howard catches his own reflection in the screen of the telly as he passes it. He meets his own eye _well, this is shit, eh?_ he asks himself, _yep,_ he answers back.

He comes back around to the kitchen. At least, whatever else, he’s not Lester.

All three of his attackers are climbing over his body, ripping at him and biting and gradually drawing him back toward the open oven. He staggers and stumbles, occasionally getting ahold of one of his assailants only to find himself being bitten by one of the others and overwhelmed again. 

“Lester!” Howard shouts, as he loops into the kitchen. He tackles into Lester in an effort to push him away from the hot, gaping maw of the oven. He slaps at the creature that sits on Lester’s shoulder, connects with it hard enough to send it spinning through the air. Howard’s panic heightens, he waits to feel teeth sink into him, and he desperately shoves Lester toward the hallway.

The creature with the mohawk hisses a sharp command, “Scat man,” it says, and the gremlins that have been chasing Howard spring. He expects them to land on his shoulders, to start ripping him apart, but they don’t.

They wrap around Lester’s legs, dig their heels in and _pull_ with all of their might. Howard’s progress slows. He adjusts his grip on Lester, goes around front of him and starts pulling him by the lapels. Lester is yanked back and forth in a game of tug-of-war. The old man can do little to help himself. He’s still being savaged by two of the things, and the one that Howard had slapped away rejoins its comrades at Lester’s legs. It lends its strength to their effort. 

Howard is losing ground. He tries to at least keep Lester in place, but he can’t get good traction on the messy floor, he slides along with Lester as the creatures pull them both backward. Howard sees the glowing orange heating element reflecting on the side of the oven. He digs his heels in and the creatures’ progress halts again. 

Finally, the mohawked creature bestirs itself. Howard watches it hop off the counter. It looks almost bored as it walks toward the scrum, toward its minions, toward Lester, toward _Howard_ , on whom its eyes are most definitely fixed. 

“No, No!” Howard objects, like it will make a difference.

The creature’s eyes narrow. A gurgle starts in the back of its throat, its shoulders shake, its teeth erupt in a grin. It cackles maniacally.

Howard heaves a kick at it, misses the creature by a centimeter. Mohawk’s eyes follow the progress of Howard’s foot. It stops laughing. It coils up on itself and springs toward him in a gravity defying leap. Howard tracks the creature’s progress through the air, stops hearing the grunting, hissing, and scatting that are happening in front of his face, hears something like the Six Million Dollar Man sound effect as the creature _flies_ at him. As it lands on his forearm, its claws sink deep, but its teeth sink deeper, deep into the flesh of Howard’s hand.

Howard shouts in pain. He releases his hold on Lester, spins in a circle and waves his arm frantically in an attempt to dislodge the creature that is attacking him. He staggers aimlessly toward the stairs, the pain of being bitten overriding his capacity for rational thought. 

He backs into the newel post. 

Instinct kicks in. 

He raises his arm and bashes the still clinging creature against the railing, once, twice... Howard raises his arm to bash it again and the creature lets go of him at the apex. It does a flip in the air (like it wants to prove that it’s not fussed by Howard’s attempts to kill it) and scampers down into the shop.

“Argh!” Howard shouts as he slams his own forearm into the railing. Down below, he hears a rasping laugh.

Howard gathers his arm to himself. He’s shaking as he turns and looks toward the kitchen.

Lester is getting pulled backward. He folds over himself. Howard doesn’t even have time to make a final, futile reach for him. He can only watch as the six creatures shove him backward.

Lester yells, “Skiddley-do-wop, no! Don’t cook me!”

There are titters of snide laughter and the creatures stuff Lester into the oven. They shut the door.

Six sets of yellow eyes turn toward Howard.

He spins on his heel toward the hallway and dashes away from them.

Naboo’s door opens and Vince steps out. He’s got Gadget in his arms and sleep in his eyes. He looks up at Howard.

“Everything alright?” he asks, confusion just beginning to blossom in his eyes.

Howard grabs him by his shirt and hauls him to the end of the hallway and into Howard’s room. Howard locks the door behind them and grabs his desk chair and jams it against the handle. He pants heavily.

It was only a minute? Maybe? It all happened so fast. He finally knows why people say that when tragedy strikes. It isn’t to state a simple fact. It’s to refute the reckoning of time in their own minds that insists that it must have taken far longer than it actually had. _It all happened so fast._

There is crashing and smashing from the other room, cruel snickering, and cries from Lester that eventually go quiet.

“What the hell is going on?” Vince asks.

Howard shakes his head. He can’t form words. His brain is only good for replaying the sight of Lester folding in half and getting jammed into the oven. He sees it a thousand times, like a sports highlight. _Here it is again, check out the form on him there, yes the perfect half-fold, rare to see something like that!_

His arm hurts. His hand hurts. He can’t remember why either one would.

Vince, he realizes, has been saying his name with an increasing amount of alarm for a long time.

“Gremlins,” Howard chokes out at last. “They’re… gremlins… like that man at the DIY said. They’re…”

“What’s happened to your hand?” Vince exclaims.

Howard looks down at it. He flexes it and blood seeps out of a wound. _Oh yeah,_ he thinks to himself before he says, “Bit me. The one with the mohawk… bit me.”

“Slash did that to you?” Vince asks. 

Howard looks at Vince, the tone of his voice is strange. He doesn’t sound like himself. He’s holding onto Gadget tenderly, the little bodmai is hiding his face against his chest and Vince strokes his back like he’s comforting a frightened toddler, but the look on his face is an expression that Howard has never seen him wear before. He doesn’t look like Vince. He doesn’t sound like Vince. He might not _be_ Vince.

Howard is certain he’s looking at the angel of death.

But it wears Vince’s face. His pajamas. Perhaps he is Vince, then, after all.

“Lester… Lester’s dead. They tipped him into the oven and shut him in. They’re cooking him like a Christmas ham.”

“What?”

“They’re on a murderous rampage,” Howard says, voice flat. He hears some distant part of his mind explain that he’s in shock. He wants to tell that part of his mind to sod off, doesn’t matter what he’s in, but he can’t very well have an argument with his own mind, nor is he even capable of doing so in any case. 

He slides to the floor and cups his head in his hands. He feels wet warmth on his chin, he remembers his bleeding hand. “Shit,” he says. He draws his fingers across his face and they come away red. He looks down at his wounded hand and it looks like something in a magazine.

Looks a bit shit, this advert he’s looking at. He has a crazed thought that the photog who shot it should have really lit it better if he expects anyone to rush out to buy it. Red balance is too high. 

He laughs a little.

Vince sets Gadget down on Howard’s bed, and kneels in front of him. He takes Howard’s hand and looks it over. Vince’s fingers start a long chain that continues all the way up his arms, all the way across his shoulders, and slopes up his neck, right to his face. 

His face, his proper face, gentle and tender, awkward angles soft and sloping. Stunning blue eyes, polar ice under yards of snow, search over his injury. They flick up, “Don’t suppose you have a first aid kit in here, do you?”

“In the cupboard,” Howard hears himself say. 

Vince smiles, the world starts going slowly purple, “Of course you do.”

Howard watches him as he goes to the cupboard and takes out the kit. “Easy to find and all,” Vince tells him. “You would have a cupboard so organized that it looks like it belongs in an Ikea. You’re mental, you know that?”

Howard hears himself getting teased. It takes him a moment to realize what Vince is doing, that he’s playing at back to normal. _Remember what that is, Howard?_

He’s not sure he does, but he can pretend. He offers Vince a weak smile.

Vince kneels again, he opens the kit. There is a sound of plastic tapping against plastic, of little packets getting shuffled, as Vince picks through it. He takes out a packet and tears it open. It’s a moist towelette. He wipes Howard’s face clean. “Can you dry swallow pills?”

“Dunno,” Howard says, softly. “Why?”

“Should take something for your hand. It’s going to hurt. Do you want to try?”

Howard nods. Vince takes out another packet and this one produces two white pills. Paracetamol, Howard knows. He takes them from Vince with his uninjured hand and puts them in his mouth. They sit there until they start getting bitter and then he remembers that he’s supposed to swallow them. He does. They go down.

Meanwhile, Vince cleans Howard’s wound. He takes antiseptic and puts it on a cotton ball and dabs it on the bites, “You’re probably going to have to go to hospital for this, get some stitches, but we can wrap it up for now so that it stops bleeding,” he says.

He’s being so normal. So calm.

Howard doesn’t even feel the first tear run down his cheek.

Vince sees it though, “Hey, you’re alright, aren’t you? I’m here, we’re alright.”

Everything was going like molasses, now it’s going like laser light. He feels everything hit him all at once. Lester, the gremlins, the stupid argument, and Vince, here and now; Vince who is just talking to him, and touching him, and trying to bring him back. What does he even want him back _for_?

“Hey, hey, you’re alright, it’s okay,” Vince says, varying his cadence as he repeats these words over and over. It’s like he’s trying to find the right way to say a magical incantation. He rubs Howard’s upper arm, “Alright…”

Howard reaches for him with his uninjured hand and Vince leans into the touch that lands on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Howard chokes out, “I… I’m a fucking moron, you know. I never should have…”

“It’s alright,” Vince says, still repeating his spell.

“I’ve fucked it up,” Howard says firmly. Vince quiets and Howard lets his hand slip off Vince’s shoulder. Vince has to know already that he has, but he is still touching Howard. He’s clutching him, in fact, on each of his arms, like he’s getting ready to shake him. “I fucked up this whole thing.”

“No—”

“I _have_ ,” Howard says. He can’t look at him anymore. He looks down at his trousers. There are drops of blood on his thighs. He shakes his head, “I don’t blame you,” he continues. His voice is airy as a specter. The thoughts that have haunted him for the past six months are spilling out of him and forming an ectoplasmic steam in between them. “For not telling anyone, about us. I… understand.”

“What?”

“It makes sense; I just, I get it, is all.”

“What are you on about?”

“Us,” _or what formerly was us_ , “You and I… It… it was never going to last, was it? I suppose I knew it too, all along...” Howard sniffs back the tears that are still collecting. “Be easier this way, won’t it? Without anyone ever having known.” 

Howard shakes his head, “Look at _you_. And all this,” he gestures at the medical kit, the crumpled packets of medicine and antiseptic. Vince is Florence fucking Nightingale all the sudden and Howard is still just _himself_. “I’m… you… you’re so…” Howard can’t find the words he’s looking for. Even if he had a compass and a map, he still wouldn’t be able to. 

He and Vince just look at one another.

Vince’s hands slowly slide from Howard’s shoulders. They hover uncertainly in the space between them. His face is uninterpretable. Howard cannot even remotely guess what he’s thinking. Vince looks like he can hardly guess what he’s thinking himself. 

Howard desperately craves Vince’s touch. He wants to reach for one of Vince’s hands, but he’s _not allowed anymore_.

“I’m sorry,” Howard repeats.

Vince nods, “Alright.”

He gently takes Howard’s injured hand and spreads it out in front of him. Vince gets out cotton balls from the kit, places them against the wound and then wraps up the whole bit with gauze.

They don’t speak. Howard has no idea if he’s forgiven or not. He can’t tell. 

Vince doesn’t stop holding his hand once he’s finished wrapping it. He doesn’t meet Howard’s eye. Vince draws in a breath, “Howard,” he begins.

There is a scraping at the bedroom door.

Howard cringes, he instinctually kicks back toward the corner. On the bed, Gadget yelps and hides himself under the pillows. Vince turns toward the scraping like a cat toward the squeak of a mouse. He gets up and goes to Gadget, lays a hand on his back. “S’alright,” he says.

The scraping continues, the door handle jiggles, but the creatures can’t seem to turn it. It lasts for only a minute, but that minute feels like it lasts about six years.

It stops.

There is harsh whispering outside the door then the splat of flat feet retreating down the hall. There is a terrific smash from the kitchen and Howard assumes the gremlins have found a new target of amusement or mayhem.

“They’re going to kill us,” Howard whispers. “You should have seen them out there. They were unstoppable.” He quakes like a jelly on top of a washing machine. He looks up at Vince. 

He thinks about retiring to a flat in Brixton. He thinks about spending every holiday at the Goofy Lodge for the next fifty years. He thinks about all of the things that probably wouldn’t have been, but now definitely _won’t be_. “I don’t want to die.”

Vince stands in the slatted light of Howard’s window. Stripes of orange and shade slash across his skin. He shifts his weight left, his hips tilt. He looks down at Howard and shakes his head, “You’re not going to die. You’ve got too much to give.”


	10. Chapter 10

“You’re not going to die,” Vince says and he feels something settle over him. “You’ve got too much to give.”

He hasn’t felt this way since he left the jungle. It’s complete calm (it’s the tap of sticks on a held cymbal). Complete confidence (speeding up and up and up). Jahooli taught him well. He’s suddenly the scariest thing in the whole flat, bloodthirsty murder monsters or not.

He keeps thinking about Howard’s wounded hand, about the cowering bodmai who huddles against him.

If there’s one thing you do not do to the scariest thing in the flat, it’s fuck with what he loves.

He gives Gadget a pat. The bodmai picks his head up off the bed, and Vince can see the fear still in his eyes. He picks Gadget up, hugs him close, and then hands him to Howard. He presses a kiss between Gadget’s ears, strokes the fur on his forehead. “Take care of each other,” he says.

He starts rummaging through Howard’s stuff. He pulls out boxes and crates, he shifts aside instrument cases while Howard looks on with an increasing level of horror.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Where’s that bassoon?”

“The… It’s under the bed.”

“Cheers,” Vince says. He kneels on the floor, ducks under the bed. He sees the long, dark bassoon case and slides it out. He flicks the latches up. The bassoon is in pieces in its velvet nest. Vince pulls up the edge of the little box that stores the reeds and cork wax. He lubricates the joints before he joins each section of the bassoon together, just like he saw Howard do the one and only time he can remember him playing it.

It’s about four feet long fully assembled, and it has a good heft to it. Vince tests the balance of it in his hands.

Howard holds Gadget close to his chest, “What are you doing?” he asks again. 

Vince hears the alarm in Howard’s tone, but he’s got nothing to be afraid of (there is piano layering over the pattering cymbal now; fire is starting). “It ain’t anything special, yeah?” Vince asks (the East End creeps into his voice) (he’s a child of the jungle) (a child of the streets) (a cockney bitch).

“What?”

“This bassoon. It’s just a bassoon, right?”

“Um… yeah,” Howard answers. He’s more emphatic when he asks, “Why?” this time.

Vince is happy to hear it, the little trickle of annoyance creeping in. Howard is coming back.

Vince stands and slings the cumbersome instrument over his shoulder, “It’s going to get messy. Just wanted to make sure that’s okay. Stay here.” He slides the chair away from the door.

“Where are you going?” Howard yelps. 

Vince turns, his hand on the doorknob, and looks over at Howard and Gadget. Gadget’s ears tremor like leaves stirred by a fitful breeze. Howard clutches the little bodmai like he’s a safety line. The pair of them look up at him and Vince knows his transformation is complete. “To take care of some business,” he says.

Howard’s lip wobbles. _Don’t go; be careful; stay with me;_ he thinks it all (Vince sees it in his eyes), but he can’t say any of it.

Vince, though. Vince can say anything he likes.

“Howard,” he says, even though Howard is already staring right at him. He just wants to say his name before he says—

“I love you.” 

He pulls the door open and walks out into the hall.

The flat is silent.

He notices the deep gouges on the bottom third of Howard’s door as he pulls it shut.

The air smells, disturbingly, of cooking meat. Vince makes a face. _Poor Lester_.

The first order of business is to get himself some shoes. He doesn’t know, but he has a guess that there is going to be broken glass in his future. He hears scratchy voices from the kitchen. He takes the two steps across the hall to his door and ducks into his room.

He puts on the first pair of boots that he lays hands on (red cowboy boots) and tucks the ends of his pajamas into them so that they balloon around his ankle. He grabs a studded leather jacket and shrugs into it. It’s as much protection as he’s going to get. 

He catches his reflection in his mirror. He looks a little silly. The purple, pink, yellow, and green stars on his pajamas, the pattern of electric blue lips on his t-shirt, the red cowboy boots, and the white and silver leather jacket combine in a frank assault on anything even remotely resembling a coordinated color palette. It’s like he’s dressed himself with a little girl’s dress-up box cast offs. Bit of styling up could at least make him look more dangerous than ragamuffin. He thinks about giving his hair a quick backcomb, a little bit of a boost, but he doesn’t have the time. Pity, really. 

He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

He takes a deep breath and leaves the safe confines of his room.

There are shadows hitting the wall crazily at the end of the hall. A lamp has been overturned. It’s like the dance of dark flame, those shadows. They move and shift. He sees one of the shadows separate from the rest. His mind sketches the creature, gives it narrow bones, long fingers, sharp teeth. Teeth that slice and rip human flesh if given a chance. His grip tightens on the bassoon.

Then, from down in the shop, music starts.

 _Do you hear what I hear?_ Whitney Houston asks.

Vince creeps forward. He keeps his back against the wall and listens intently, not about to be surprised. He crosses to the other side of the hall to keep cover from the kitchen as long as possible. He reaches the corner and waits. 

The music is loud ( _Do you know what I know?_ ), but under the echoing chorus, the ruffling march of snare drum, he can hear taps and crunches in the kitchen. Three of them, he thinks. They’ve obviously figured out how to open the refrigerator for themselves (or they’re eating Lester), there is the sound of slurping and yumming in between the crackle of (what he hopes) are crisp packets being opened and not crisped up bits of skin.

He rounds the corner, bassoon at the ready. The kitchen has been torn apart. The beakers and test tubes from before are shattered all over the place. Sweets and food litter the counter and floor in piles. Everything has been pulled out of the cabinets; plates, trays, cutlery. The Christmas tree is on its side, still lit. 

The overturned lamp peeks at him from around the side of the kitchen island. The shade is a cone that shapes the light into a spotlight that hits him in the face. Vince is used to spotlights, though. He feels comfortable there. 

The whole place is a fucking mess. He has a fraction of a second to take in his surroundings, and the three gremlins that turn toward him with fangs bared. They hiss (an unappreciative audience if ever there was one) and then they burst into motion.

The one furthest from him reaches for a plate and throws it at his face like a frisbee. Vince ducks and he hears it smash somewhere behind him. One of the closer two rushes him. It leaps from the counter at his torso, clawed hands and feet extended. He tracks its path with his eyes, plants his feet, squares his shoulders, and draws the bassoon back. He swings and the bassoon makes contact with a ripe thwack. The bassoon is heavy and the follow-through of the swing is almost enough to unbalance him. He keeps his feet though, as the gremlin is caromed sideways.

It smacks into the stove and crumples like a folded-up accordion. 

He’s just sent a message, there. The other two snap and snarl and he takes a step forward (come to mummy, my pretties) then a flash of movement from the side catches his eye.

He turns just in time to see a fourth gremlin spring at him. He spins to the right and dodges the creature’s teeth, but he feels a claw rake across his cheek. The gremlin lands on the opposite counter, positioned just in front of the open microwave. Vince uses the end of the bassoon like a battering ram and bashes the door into the gremlin’s body. It stumbles back, gets jammed into the microwave. Its fingers scrabble and claw at the sides as it tries to get out, but Vince hammers at the door until the gremlin is finally trapped inside.

He leans over, slaps on the popcorn setting. The gremlin’s flesh crackles, its eyes bulge in fury that turns to fear, and then _pop_ ; the gremlin explodes in a mess of green goop. 

That’s going to be an absolute bitch to clean up. 

Vince turns and wipes the cut on his cheek. He licks clean the blood that comes away on the back of his hand and looks for his next target.

The other two have scarpered. Can’t say he blames them.

He looks around him. The drawers are pulled out, half of them are hanging off their tracks and dipping toward the floor. There is so much stuff, more things than he properly realized they had, littering the counter, the floors; he struggles to make sense of the debris. He sees spoons, a regurgitated sponge, biscuit crumbs, one of Naboo’s pipes, shattered plates, a shredded tea towel... 

He stalks past a lone raspberry bootlace that dangles from the handle of the refrigerator. The silver edge of a zippo winks at him amid the flotsam at the bottom of one of the drawers. He scoops it up, flicks it open. It works. He slips it into his pocket.

There’s a rather wicked looking knife at the edge of the island that he kicks away, hoping that one of the Gremlins won’t grab it and turn it on him. His boots crunch on debris, broken test tubes snap into dust under his feet, he squelches through something wet. He places one foot at a time, watching, listening.

He edges around the other side of the kitchen island. He expects that the two that have run will be crouched on the other side. He holds the bassoon up, anyway, like he’s going to have something to swing at, but there’s nothing there, just an overturned stool that leans toward the couch, a throw pillow that’s been gutted like a fish (feathers piled around it like stripped scales), and a wasteland of smashed and broken toys, the ones that he’d brought up from the shop for the bodmai, back when they were bodmai.

The flat looks completely empty, but he knows it isn’t. He can sense the eyes on him, the undeniable feeling of being watched. 

He glances toward the Christmas tree. The colored lights shine out at him. He turns away from it, to go back around the other side of the island. He hears a rustle (fake pine needles being disturbed), a tinkle (ornaments clinking into one another), a crunch (a bulb getting crushed underfoot) and he spins back, but too late.

The gremlin latches onto his back, its claws rake for purchase on the smooth leather jacket. Scaly fingers wrap around his throat. Vince continues to spin. He staggers backward and slams his shoulders against the wall in an attempt to dislodge the gremlin, but the creature is too quick for him. It swings around his front, not relinquishing its hold on his throat. All Vince does with his attempted attack is drive the air from his own lungs. 

The reach of the bassoon is too wide for the suddenly close quarters combat. He tries to get an arm in between himself and his attacker, but its body is tight against him. The fucking thing is stronger than it looks, too. Its little fingers dig into his throat like stripped branches on a rose bush. They’re sharp, spined, vicelike. 

He’s not looking at the floor, so it is unsurprising when his heel catches on something. He slips awkwardly. He drops the bassoon, throws out an arm to break his fall. He catches himself against the floor as he slides down to one knee and slices his thumb on something sharp. The gremlin’s fingers tighten (ten greedy, bony pythons) and black stars start blooming in his peripheral vision. 

He gropes about in the debris for something, anything, that might serve as a weapon while he tries (unsuccessfully) to slap the gremlin away.

Yellow, slitted snake-eyes stare into his, and the gremlin laughs as it strangles the life from him. Its breath is rank enough for him to smell it, even though he’s not breathing properly, like the damn thing is rotting from the inside.

This is absolutely not the way Vince Noir dies. That’s all he can think as he fights for breath. 

And it isn’t. 

His fingers close on a plastic handle. He’s got no way of knowing if he’s grabbed a spatula or a butcher knife, but it doesn’t matter. He stabs at the thing’s face and _splish, crunch_ ; he drives a screwdriver into its eye. Green blood spurts from the wound, all over Vince’s jacket, all over his face and neck and chest. The gremlin’s expression goes blank, its grip slackens and it slumps to the floor. It twitches as its synapses fire their final, meaningless signals.

Vince coughs and rubs his throat, wheezes in a long, painful breath. Green blood coats his hands and he wipes it away on his pajamas, hopelessly staining them. It’s a mark of how serious things are that he spends no more than a moment mourning their loss. His jacket is in shreds too. Looks more punk than glam now. That’s alright, at least. 

He pulls up the bottom of his t-shirt and wipes his face on the hem of it.

He hears the tap of claws on hardwood coming from down the hall. He crawls back to his feet, but he stays crouched low. He grabs the bassoon again, but he doesn’t move, afraid of disturbing the debris and making too much noise. He just waits.

Something falls over with a metallic clink. It rolls with a sound like the inside of a wave, a herald to presage the arrival of the gremlin that follows it. Vince turns toward the noise.

A can bumps into the corner of the island and comes to a rattling stop. 

He almost laughs. It’s a can of hairspray.

The soft foot-flaps are still approaching. 

He adjusts his grip on the bassoon, lifts it off the floor without a sound. He’s not going to have a whole hell of a lot of time. 

The creature pauses. There is a scrape of claw against the floor. “Yum-yums,” the creature says. It’s picked up a sweet off the floor. Vince hears it crunch through something that’s got a wrapper on, anyway, before it starts walking again. Vince coils, ready to pounce.

The creature’s toe peeks around the island. He springs at the exact moment that a shout comes from down the hall. The gremlin turns and starts sprinting (away from where Vince can strike at him) toward Howard (he’s come out of his room with a clarinet that goes from cocked to dropped in less than half a second) and Howard starts to shriek (something else is shrieking too) (Gadget) and he realizes that _both_ of them have come out here (for some reason). 

Vince adjusts (he has to). He slides the bassoon across the floor (it skates into the railing), he seizes the can of hairspray (the can slots into his hand like a puzzle piece) and he _rolls_ from behind the island like he’s John fucking Rambo. He comes up on his knees, shouting. 

The zippo is out of his pocket and in his hand in a second. 

The gremlin glances backward just in time to catch a face full of hairspray (it screams in agony and surprise) before he flicks the zippo open and immolates the bastard while Howard looks on in stunned horror.

It stands still for a millisecond (reality has to catch up with it) then its arms raise (like its riding a roller coaster), it flails them above its head, fully (and appropriately) panicking. It runs in a frantic circle, screaming bloody murder. Thick, black smoke streams up into the air and now the flat really smells like a proper barbeque. 

The scent of it turns his stomach. He might go vegetarian after all this. 

The gremlin’s flaming hands bat at its face, it writhes and squeals and then, finally, falls at last. Flames flicker and dance across its blackened body. 

Howard’s eyes are as wide as they can go. “The flat is on fire!” he shouts.

It’s not, but it will be if the gremlin continues to burn. Vince grabs the blanket off the back of the sofa, throws it over the smoldering corpse, and pats out the flames. He looks up at Howard, “It’s fine.”

There is a sound like cold ice put into warm water, a sort of sucking, snapping, fizz as Howard stares at him. “What the hell?”

Vince brushes his fringe back, “What did you bring Gadget out here for?”

Howard doesn’t answer his perfectly reasonable question. His eyes remain terrified as he says, “Did you just roast something alive with… with hairspray?”

Vince shrugs. _Yeah. So what?_

“Wha—t?” Howard asks, like he’s not got any idea who the hell Vince even is any more.

“It wasn’t all fun and games in the jungle,” Vince says by way of explanation.

There is an awed coo and Vince looks around to see Gadget standing up and peering over Howard’s shoulder from the relative safety of a backpack. The bodmai has been bundled into it like it’s a baby bjorn. 

“Are you mad?” Vince asks him. 

Gadget giggles.

The music from below comes to a screeching stop (Lou Rawls’ _Merry Christmas, Baby_ squeals a death knell) and the sound of shattering plastic follows a millisecond later. The radio, Vince assumes, has met its end.

“The others must be down there,” Vince says, looking over the bannister. “Just stay up here. Please? I can’t have something happen to you.”

“Yeah,” Howard says, just a puff of a word, like he can’t get completely behind it. “Probably best.” 

Gadget squeals and squeaks in protest.

“Goes for you, too,” Vince tells him. “You, either of you, could end up hurt.” Vince picks up the bassoon again and heads for the stairs.

Howard blinks and then steps in front of him. Vince stops, has to crane to look up at him.

“So could you,” Howard says.

“Yeah, well—”

“We could help,” Howard interjects, quickly. He glances back and Gadget meets Howard’s eye and gives a single, sharp nod. “We talked it over, Gadget and I, and you… you’re more vulnerable on your own. Right?”

Vince can’t help the slouch that yanks him sideways. He rolls his eyes, “This isn’t the time to come all over brave, Howard.”

Howard looks like he knows that Vince is being sensible. Still, he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders up, “You said you loved me.”

“I did,” Vince says, slightly bewildered. He hasn’t got time to chat like this. The longer the gremlins are left to their own devices, the longer they have to prepare.

“I just… I...” Howard’s mouth works, he presses his lips together and then says, “If something happened to you, it wouldn’t matter to me that I was safe, because I’d only be thinking that maybe, I could’ve… done something, to save you. And, I’d not be able to live with myself, because…” he trails off, sheepishly. He swallows, takes a steadying breath, “I love you, too.”

Vince has heard Howard say he loves him before (hardly counted, though), and he’s suspected (in his wildest, most desperate dreams) that maybe, just maybe he did (he can’t really) (can he?) but hearing it now feels like glitter in sunshine, like getting a sherbet lemon out of a tray of menthol cough drops, like your favorite song at maximum volume; it’s surprise, and joy, and wonder. 

It’s like shaking a snow globe and watching everything that was stirred up settling down into perfect place. Vince wants to believe it, desperately wants Howard to mean it.

There is still so much to do, but right now, he’s standing in front of the man he loves (who has just said he loves him too) and even if he doesn’t plan for anyone to die, they still _could_.

Anyway, it’s only half a step to get to Howard. Seems worth it.

He goes to him, wraps an arm around Howard’s neck and pulls him down while he goes up on his toes and they meet in the middle for a kiss. It’s the work of a moment (it’s worth doing for a lifetime) the affectionate press turns heated, he’s not sure who opened their mouth first, but one of them did, and they have a sustained snog until Gadget squeaks affrontedly and Vince remembers him.

Vince is a little breathless by the time they break away. His arm slips down until it’s just his hand on the back of Howard’s neck. The bassoon hangs at his side in his other hand. He mumbles an apology toward Gadget, but he’s looking up at Howard looking down at him and he only half means it. He could never be actually sorry for _this_. 

He doesn’t know for sure, but he suspects that they look artistically posed and sharply rendered, like a pulpy heavy metal album cover. The thought makes him smile.

Howard smiles back at him.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Vince says, fingers caressing Howard’s cheek, “I can handle this.”

“I know,” Howard says (he might glance down at the charred corpse), “but we can help. We want to help. Let me help. Please.”

And it’s all there in that one word. Vince might do some glancing of his own, over toward the discarded clarinet, but he doesn’t mention it. 

He only says, “Just stay behind me. If it goes bad, run. Promise me you’ll protect Gadget, alright?”

“Okay,” Howard says. He’s holding onto the front of Vince’s jacket like he doesn’t want to let it go. Vince wants Howard to stay well away from the danger that’s below their feet, but they’re a team, a double act right until the end, and Vince will do this with Howard if he can’t do it for him.

“Let’s go,” Vince says.

Howard lets go of the jacket, “Ugh,” he says looking down at the coagulating green blood on his hands with a grimace.

Christ, Vince loves him.

He does them both a favor and voices the thought out loud, “Christ, I love you,” (Howard looks at him with a surprised, half-quirked smile) (now that he’s said it once, Vince realizes he’s going to be saying _all the fucking time_ ) then he hands Howard the hairspray and zippo, “Last resort, yeah?”

Howard nods, holding onto the items like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t, is the thing. He hands them back to Gadget and Gadget puts them into the bag.

“Uh, wait. Before we go…” Howard nods toward the stairs, “Lester had some stuff that might come in useful. Probably should also bring a torch down there. I don’t know if the lights are working.”

As insane as it seems, Vince had totally forgotten about the terrifying old witch, her spell, and the electrical being knocked out below. So, turns out, Howard is helping already.

Howard finds Lester’s bag and snaps it shut. He straps it to the backpack below Gadget. He also turns off the oven with a little wince. He starts to pick through the debris for anything useful (or so he says when Vince encourages him to hurry); he plucks things off the floor and either hands them back to Gadget or puts them in one of his pockets. 

Vince keeps guard at the top of the stairs. 

There is no sound from below beyond an occasional rustling. He fancies that he sees eyes that glint like the inside of a abalone shell peering up at him at one point, but he blinks and the eyes are gone and he can’t be sure if he’s only imagined them. 

He tries to concentrate on what is going to happen _after_. How they’re going to have to nearly kill themselves cleaning up the flat. How they’re going to complain about it. Howard’s going to snipe at him for making such a mess in the microwave. Vince is going to point out that he saved their lives. Then they’re going to shag like rabbits.

He doesn’t think about the ghostly eyes sneaking glances at him from the dark, the way those eyes seemed to deliberate, to think…

After all, he might have imagined them.

Might have.

Eventually, Howard locates a torch. He flicks it on and off to make sure it works and then they’re ready to go.

They descend into the dark, Howard behind him, pointing the torch forward. Vince holds the bassoon at the ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is little I love more than a surprise badass. The mom in Gremlins is a prime example. That woman and her microwavin', blendin', stabbin', and TV tray table shieldin' is one of the best things ever committed to film. God love her.
> 
> Reason number two for writing this fic was obviously to get Vince in the BAMF role. If I could, I'd have had him wearing a sensible cardigan and khakis too, but I felt that would probably be a step too far ;)


	11. Chapter 11

Naboo has a blinder of a migraine. It’s burning right through his left eye. It’s the stress that’s doing it. The stress and the shouting. The bottomless appetizer of shouting that has prevented the hearing from progressing past the stage of everyone taking their seats.

He wishes he’d had time to talk to Kirk before everything started. He’s always got _something_ on him. In fact, about an hour in, Naboo had seen him slip something out of the sleeve of his robe and take it, and now he’s got a smile on his face and eyes that are looking beyond the veil.

Naboo wishes he could join him.

“All I’m saying is that I understand the impulse,” Saboo says querulously. 

“The impulse? The impulse? You slag, kiss-arse, Saboo. Ain’t no way you’d ever go out for a gyrfalcon with a bowler hat, just because it was a bogo.”

“Don’t tell me what I would and wouldn’t do, Tony.”

This is it. All they’ve managed to discuss is Dennis’s business plan. Naboo has tried to drag everyone back on course, but it’s been useless. Particularly since _she_ is steering in a diametrically opposite course.

She knows that he wants to get this over with quickly, and if he wants black, she wants white.

“You don’t even like birds.”

“I like them just fine.”

“Caught a shit on your face from some starling, didn’t you? Thought you’d broken with the whole feathered lot of them after that.”

“Starlings are not birds, Tony, they’re menaces. Even a chapped cleft like you should be able to tell the difference between a gyrfalcon and a soulless feathered demon.”

It’s all part of _her_ plan. Kill Naboo with annoyance, get him worked up so that when things actually start, he’s not on his game, so she can have her way with the council, so she can get them to agree to let her have at Bollo however she wants. 

“What about avian flu?” Tony Harrison asks.

Saboo rolls his eyes, “What _about_ avian flu?”

“Spread it, don’t they? Birds.”

“Imagine that, birds spreading bird flu,” Saboo gives a slow, sarcastic clap, “Brilliantly deducted, Tony Harrison! Go to the head of the class!”

Dennis chuckles nervously at the mention of avian flu, “My hawks will be avian flu free. They’re going to receive the utmost medical care.”

Saboo lowers his head in deference, “Of course they will, sire.”

Harrison rolls his eyes, “Here we fucking go—”

Saboo points at Tony Harrison, “Don’t fucking start with me, Tony—”

“What you going to do?” Tony Harrison asks, his tentacles coming up in front of his face like he’s ready to go.

Saboo sneers down at him, “I’ll punt you like a rugby ball—”

“There will be no punting of Tony Harrison,” Dennis says quickly, “in spite of his unpopular opinions and prejudices against hawks.”

She’s fucking evil, she is. She’s willing to subject herself to all of this just to get him ruffled, but he’s not playing into her hand. 

She’s been shooting glares Naboo’s way all night. Glares laced with icy smiles, reminders of who is the one in control, here. It’s not Naboo, that’s for sure.

It should be Dennis, but it’s not him either.

It’s her.

They’re going to listen to this squabbling until she’s tired of it. Until then, Naboo is going to hold on for the ride and nothing he can do to stop it.

She’s begging him to try again. _Go ahead, remind them why we’re here,_ she implores wordlessly, _just try it._

Naboo won’t give her the satisfaction. Not this time. He’ll let this play out. He looks away from her and hopes he’s disappointed her.

“Oh, and that makes it true, does it? ‘I’m Tony Harrison and I haven’t got proper arms, I can’t control a hawk, so no one else is going to want one,’” Saboo mocks, “is that it, Tony?”

“I’ve got arms!”

“You have _tentacles_ , and, as time has proven, they are not as good.”

“Tentacles have it all over arms!” Tony Harrison insists. 

“How? Name me one way tentacles are better than arms, Tony. Go on, just one. I’ve got all night.”

Tony Harrison looks doubtfully around him. Has a good long think. Naboo would resent how long he’s pausing, except that it’s the first bit of quiet he’s had in three hours. 

“Eeer... Pickle jars,” Tony says at last. “Who do you call when you need the last pickle fished out of a deep jar? My tentacles can go right in there, scoop it up, have it out quick smart! You try doing that with your fleshy, five fingered grippers!”

“Hands, Tony, they’re called hands!” 

“Yeah, well, try getting them in a jar! You’ll get stuck!”

Saboo shakes his head, “I’d use a fork, you idiot! And, anyway, I’d never touch anything your disgusting pink seaweed spaghetti strings have wrapped around, let alone eat it.”

“This is an outrage! You hear what he’s said to me?”

“Alright, perhaps we should all settle down,” Dennis says. 

But no one does.

The moon crawls through the sky and it continues.

Howard follows close behind Vince, his heart pounds in his chest so hard, he can hear it. At least, that’s what he thinks the insistent pounding that fills his ears is. Or it’s an auditory hallucination of a hammer beating a bass drum into oblivion. He feels the rhythm pummeling into him, feels the pulse sucking at his lungs before it raps against his eardrums, systematic in its call for flight.

_Do not mistake yourself for a brave man, Moon._

There’s no danger of that. 

Not with the stairs squishing under his feet like they’re made up out of a bouncy castle. They’re not. It’s just his knees, rubbery with nerves, that wobble and quake with each step. He feels almost faint, like, at any second, he’s going to topple straight over.

He feels sick, too; like he’s got a fever and a hangover and indigestion, all at once. He’s kicking his feet over the edge of a canyon, rocking back and forth, swaying a little more toward the chasm each time. He’s going to tip, tip, tip and then... the fall.

He has to fight to keep putting foot after foot in front of him, to keep following Vince forward. 

He can feel occasional whiffs of breath hit the back of his ear. Gadget peeks over his shoulder from the backpack. He shifts a little with each step Howard takes, his fingers seize on Howard’s cardigan, or his feet shuffle in the pack. He’s quiet, but Howard can’t forget his presence, just there, just behind him, shoring him up.

It had been a joint decision, to come out after Vince; one that, if he’s perfectly honest, the bodmai had probably argued for a little more strongly. Not that he can exactly express himself in terms that are exactly eloquent and clear, but he is able to make himself understood. Howard, at least, understood the look of fear that turned into a look of reproach and then a look of steely confidence well enough. _We have to do something._

Howard had more or less agreed. 

He’d also seen the wisdom in just staying put, keeping Gadget safe like Vince had wanted him to, but once the thumps and splats started coming from the kitchen, Howard’s imagination had twisted each sound into all sorts of horrible last stands for Vince. If there is anything Howard knows, it is that there are a million ways to be killed without ever leaving the confines of your flat. Probably several million more when you’ve got something actively trying to kill you and aren’t just leaving it to chance. 

He imagined all of them until he was unable to stand still, unable to continue to do nothing. 

So, he put together his clarinet, found a backpack for Gadget, and away they went. Of course, in the moment, he had forgotten how unlikely it is that he’s actually going to be of use. 

He’d forgotten completely, as he walked down the hall with the clarinet poised in deadly readiness, his face set in the scowl of a man who will have no truck with nonsense.

He’d remembered, though, as soon as he saw the gremlin standing in his path. The black, flapping batwing-ears, the malevolent snake eyes, and the pointed, needle sharp teeth, hung with swathes of saliva like angel hair, all reminded him very effectively that he is best suited to the **flight** option in fight or flight. 

Instead of lowering the clarinet to strike, he’d dropped it and squealed, half-turned to run, precisely as his long, elegant legs were designed to do, but then Vince had rolled out of nowhere and...

Howard still can’t believe Vince is just _doing_ this. 

Four, four in ten minutes. That’s how many Vince took down. On his own, like he’s just been waiting for the opportunity to prove, beyond a doubt, that he is John Wayne done up like David Bowie. Add roasting monsters alive to the list of Surprising Things Vince Noir Can and Will Do with His Hands. Longer list than Howard would have thought six months ago.

Primping, yes, painting, yes, sewing, sure; but out and out brutality? From Vince who, only hours earlier, was worried over the state of the eggs from which the things hatched?

Howard would never have guessed in a million years.

He doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand Vince, his Vince, the Vince he’s known for most of his life, isn’t that sort of bloke. Never has been. He solves problems with words, with hair tonics, with fashion accessories. Howard has never wanted him to be anyone else.

But.

There is something so strangely masculine about violence. Strange to think that Howard has only just really realized that he’s been sleeping with someone who is very much a man for the past six months. It’s not like he’s not known, (the prick, after all, is a dead giveaway) but Vince is so... delicate. 

Not delicate, exactly, just... fine. And that isn’t precisely correct, either. It’s just that Howard has never thought of Vince as being that type of primal, carnal, man’s man. 

A tough bear of a thing, a bit of rough, a man of action. 

The sort of man who can go all dangerous and steely, the sort of man who you can actually imagine sleeping feral and half-naked next to a fire chewing a long shank of something he recently ended with his own bare hands, intimidating as much as alluring. 

It’s making him a bit… confused. 

More than a bit, if he’s honest.

Vince, holding the door handle and staring at Howard and saying _I love you_ like it might be the last thing he’d ever say to him... fuck. That is going to be burned into the back of his brain until the day he dies. 

It hardly feels real.

He keeps wondering if it’s weird that beneath the steady tattoo of fear, he also feels a barely controllable urge to offer himself up to Vince, to let him take Howard as rough as he wants, any way he’d like it. Howard wants Vince so badly, it’s burning through the spikes of terror, shredding apart his common sense. Vince could suggest anything right now and Howard would leap to do it.

Part of it is the stupid argument. His guilt over it is still there, and it’ll be there until Vince bodily absolves him. But part of it is just... attraction. Heady, giddy, fuck-me-over-a-barrel attraction.

All of it combined is why, he supposes, he’s still walking forward, in spite of the sickness, the wobbling knees, the hammering heartbeat. 

Vince has suggested killing monsters. Howard has agreed. There will be plenty of time for the rest later, or so Howard hopes. 

Vince touches down at the bottom of the stairs, his boots are luridly illuminated in the beam of the torch, before he whispers, “Shine it out, Howard, not on me.”

“Right,” he whispers back. He steps just behind Vince and shines the beam over the shop.

It’s not as bad as the flat, at first glance. Upstairs, it seemed that there was a concentrated effort to destroy things. Down here, well, it’s wrecked, but it’s more like a messy teenager’s bedroom rather than a refuse heap. 

There are clothes are all over the place. Vince’s carefully curated collection of cast-offs and reworked jumble sale finds are strewn over the floor so thick, that there is barely any actual floor visible. The record rack has been tipped over, but most of the records are still in their sleeves. None of them, blessedly, look broken. Then the beam of the torch catches shattered plastic and Howard sees the remains of the radio. 

It’s been split in two and gutted like some sort of heretical offering to an eldritch power. Tape spills in black, spiraling entrails out of its broken body. Howard’s stomach sours. 

He passes the light over the far wall and more chaos is revealed. The shelves all knocked about. Some have been pulled down all together, some have merely been cleared of their stock. The top of the piano is covered in random flotsam. A toy car twinkles red, bits of broken ceramic flash green and white, a dream catcher hangs haphazardly off the corner of the lid, before the torch reveals thick gouges deep in the wood where the creatures must have tried to pry up the keyboard cover. 

The cheese plant has been unpotted and thrown toward the till. It looks at Howard as though it resents his late arrival. Howard fights down the temptation to defend himself against its mute accusation.

He fears the worst as the beam begins to travel over Stationery Village, but it’s been left untouched. The only thing that he notices that is any different is that someone has arranged the world’s smallest fairy lights around all the little trees and houses. The thought of Vince arranging them slides through Howard’s consciousness like a caress. 

He turns the corner toward the till. It’s been ripped open. Loose change spills out of it onto the counter and glitters on the floor, but the shelves behind it are unmolested. The army of snow globes that Vince had lined up only days earlier catch the torch beam and reflect it back at them. 

Howard catches a patch of dark skin and the torchlight jumps as warning bells peal in Howard’s mind, but then he realizes that the smooth, black skin isn’t being worn by a gremlin. It’s only the stuffed alligator. The light smoothly sails from the creature’s tail, over its flat, reptilian body, past its shining glass eyes, and across its gleaming white teeth. 

Three primary colored robots stand like sentinels, looking out over the shop almost sadly, like they know they’ve failed. Miserably. The light shines back off the clear plastic shell of a telephone and its neon circuitry gets picked out of the dark. Howard reaches the end of the counter and then he’s shining the light down the hall, toward the storage cupboard, toward the back door.

The shop seems empty. He knows, of course, that it isn’t. His heart hikes into his throat. He shivers nervously. Gadget grips his shoulder. He can feel the bodmai shivering too. Feels good to know that he’s not the only one questioning the wisdom of coming out of his room.

Ahead of them, Vince takes a step forward. He’s stalking. Howard recognizes the stride he’s using as a more vicious version of the one he sometimes uses on Howard. That version, though, is as much for show, for titillation, as it is for deadly efficiency. This one is stripped of any type of self-awareness. 

It’s a quiet type of walk, the type of walk that doesn’t want to be noticed. Howard didn’t know Vince had this kind of movement in him. Everything about him is surprising Howard tonight.

Howard swallows down his nerves and does his best to move quietly behind him.

Vince flicks all of the light switches up to no effect. He turns back toward Howard, “Where’s that thing?”

Howard shakes his head, _what?_

“The thing for the lights,” Vince clarifies.

He means the electrical box, Howard realizes. “Storage cupboard,” he whispers.

Vince nods. They creep toward the storage cupboard. Howard shines the torch behind the counter just as they go past and, still, nothing. Vince pushes the door to the cupboard open with the end of the bassoon. The wooden creak it makes while it opens is the loudest fucking noise Howard has ever heard in his life.

He grimaces as the cupboard is slowly revealed to them, the torch beam dances like an upset pigeon scooting on the sidewalk. There is a certain aimlessness to the way he’s pointing it, like he doesn’t know where it should go. Vince reaches back and steadies his hand. He swoops the torch over the small room cleanly. The electrical box is revealed in the back corner. Vince lets him go. He glances at Howard, smiles up at him, then he steps inside. Howard follows.

Vince sweeps the bassoon back and forth slowly, it catches the beam of the torch, casts a shadow, drifts back into the dark. It’s a dance. The keep them all alive dance. He stops at the corner and turns back toward the way they’ve come, “Can you get the lights up?”

“I think so,” Howard says. He opens the panel and points the torch into it. The thing is a nightmare. It is a combination of circuit breakers and fuses that was probably installed in the forties or fifties before safety regulations became an actual concern. Howard has told Naboo that they should upgrade the whole service, get it modern and up to code, but the shaman seems to believe that whatever combination of magic and sheer dumb luck that has kept the electric from bursting into flames will continue to do so.

Needless to say, the whole thing is labeled unhelpfully. There is no breaker or fuse that says ‘shop’ next to it. Instead, the cabinet says things like ‘eel tank’, ‘servant’s chamber’, ‘conservatory’, and ‘anteroom’. Howard starts with the breakers. He flips each one back and forth. They stick in place. It takes a little more effort than it should to get each one flipped and he hurts his thumb. He curses and shakes his hand.

“Alright?” Vince asks. He doesn’t look at Howard, he’s focused on the door behind them.

“Fine,” Howard says, “shit, that’s all of the breakers. I think a fuse must have blown.” He looks dubiously at the fuses which are all so blackened and crusted with dust that they, none of them, look like they should work. “I’m going to have to—” he begins.

Gadget squeals in alarm. Howard whips around and the bodmai is jostled in the pack. He pulls Howard’s hair trying to stabilize himself, and Howard would cry out in pain if he wasn’t already crying out at the sight of the gremlin that has bounded into the room. It leaps for Vince. Howard swings the torch up, but he’s stumbled backward in his shock and his elbow hits the shelf in the wrong place and he drops it. It hits the floor and the light rolls away under a shelf.

The golden beam that shines from under the shelf is Dutch art film light. It’s focused and too bright in the wrong places, too dim where it would be helpful. The gremlin moves like a shadow against shadow, Vince steps into and out of the beam, his boots, the color of blood, then the color of ash, plant firmly on the ground as he swings the bassoon. 

The creature dodges the swing, it springs up at him, but Vince catches it in the face with his elbow and the gremlin falls ineffectually to the floor. Vince raises the bassoon over his head and swings it down like a sledgehammer, but the thing scrambles out of the way just in time. The bassoon hits the floor with a crack that chips the wood.

Howard presses back against the shelf behind him, and Gadget squeaks, possibly because he’s getting crushed, Howard realizes. He tries to make himself move, to step forward, but he can’t.

He can only watch as the gremlin barges its way in between the stock on a shelf. It turns and starts throwing whatever it can lay hands on at Vince. Vince is able to dodge and parry a fair number of the things aimed at his face, his chest, basically any place vaguely designated as _him_ , but he gets hit with his fair share too. He stumbles forward, arm up in front of his face, bassoon dragging in one hand behind him, while the gremlin scrambles and laughs, all the while throwing anything it can his way.

It isn’t until Vince gets pelted with a tortoiseshell hairbrush that Howard remembers himself. Howard Moon is not brave, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do something. He takes a deep breath and his muscles unlock. Gadget is tapping him on the shoulder and Howard looks around them on the shelves, thinking at first to start throwing things back, but then he sees what he realizes Gadget has already spotted.

He picks up the polaroid camera from the shelf, unsure if it will work or not. “Cover your eyes,” he mumbles over his shoulder. 

He steps closer and then he presses the button. A powerful flash goes off directly in the face of the gremlin. The effect of the light is instant. The creature screeches angrily, its hands fly up to shield itself, it hisses like a furious steam engine. Howard keeps clicking and Vince closes the distance between himself and the gremlin quickly.

He swings at it, and it seems mostly accidental when the creature wobbles out of the way. The bassoon strikes inches from its body. Whether from the noise, or some other innate survival instinct, the creature jumps forward. It gets in under Vince’s defenses, and bumps into his leg. As soon as it feels the contact, its claws grip the back of his calf and it hoists itself up. 

Howard stops clicking the polaroid, too frightened to do anything but squeak a pained, “Vince!” as the creature slashes his body. Clothes shred, Howard imagines Vince’s skin tearing, as the creature scales, madcap, up Vince’s body, like a miniature King Kong. 

Vince drops the bassoon with an utterance of ‘fuck’. Sort of like he’s spilled something, not like he’s getting horribly sliced to ribbons with deadly abandon. Howard feels crazed laughter building up in his throat, because seeing is apparently _worse_ than imagining. 

Who fucking knew?

Vince and the gremlin battle for territory on his torso. Howard is powerless, stricken with the image of Lester fighting the gremlins upstairs. He remembers how quickly he was overwhelmed, how little there was to be done. He watches uselessly, unable to fight past the panic, the certainty that Vince is similarly doomed. 

But Vince is not Lester, and there are not six gremlins here, but one. 

Vince grabs the gremlin around the neck, heedless of the spines that run down the thing’s back. It writhes like a struggling cat in his hands as he thrusts it away from himself. The creature’s spine rolls and snaps like a whip, its legs and arms reach and claw, its teeth gnash with audible clicks, but to no avail.

“Watch out!” Vince shouts. Howard staggers out of the way. Vince spins in a circle and throws the gremlin like he’s throwing a discus. It flies straight and fast, directly into the electrical panel. There are sparks as the gremlin hits, its body no doubt snaps the fragile glass that encases the fuses, but not enough of the electrical is exposed to do the creature any lasting harm. The gremlin drunkenly stumbles up to standing again. It shakes its head.

“Flash it!” Vince yells.

Howard lurches into motion. He flashes the polaroid camera, over and over. In the strobing light, he sees the bassoon crash down on the thing’s head in a jerky, disconnected series of images, like he’s slowly thumbing through the pages of a flipbook. Something like watermelon rind flies, strange, pale flesh clings to it, and green juice sprays last of all. The creature goes still as Howard continues pressing the button on the polaroid, capturing the spread of green blood as it oozes out in a Rorschach pattern from its shattered skull.

He presses the button for a last time, the final flash dies with a mechanical sigh. There are polaroids all over the floor. Howard realizes that he’s going to be able to go back through all of them, and, just like the flipbook he imagined, he’ll be able to replay the gremlin’s death photo by photo if he wants.

Howard stares down at all of them dumbly. He stares at the pattern of blood on the floor, can’t decide what it properly looks like. Mess. Just looks like mess, he decides.

“Nice work,” Vince says, breathing hard.

Howard can’t, for the life of him, speak. He’s really not meant for this sort of thing, it occurs to him. Vince reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, “Had to be done, Howard,” he says, softly. 

“I know.”

“I don’t like it either,” Vince tells him. His voice is sad, melancholy. He isn’t proud of this, of what he can do.

Howard looks at him. There is green blood, and red blood, all over him. He looks like a particularly macabre Christmas decoration. Pale, pale skin. Blood of red, blood of green. Shreds all colors of the rainbow cling to him. Howard touches a hanging strip of electric blue t-shirt. His fingers graze the skin of Vince’s stomach. “Shirt’s ruined,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Vince nods, shrugs, “Yeah. Old anyway, though.”

“You wore it your first day at the zoo,” Howard says. He doesn’t know why, but he remembers that it’s true. Howard hadn’t really expected him to turn up that day, but he had. Blue lips on his t-shirt, white boots on his feet, jeans clinging tight to his thighs, chewing nervously at his cuticle, _All right, Howard?_ , he’d said, like he was a little surprised to find himself there too. _Let’s get you in uniform_ Howard had replied, and it was done.

It was years ago. Ages ago. Back before Howard realized... so many things.

“Yeah,” Vince confirms. His hand glides down Howard’s arm, his fingers take the place of the shredded t-shirt. He gives Howard’s fingers a squeeze, “Do you think you can get the power going again?”

Howard nods.

Vince gets the torch from under the shelf and Gadget holds it while Howard looks for the replacement fuses. He searches the shelves for what is probably only a few minutes, but it feels like it takes forever. The cardboard box where he keeps functional things like batteries and fuses is where it always has been. Funny, though, that he can’t remember where that is until he finds it. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and it’s sweaty, but cool. 

He’s inches away. He keeps thinking that, over and over. _Inches away. Inches away. Inches away._

He’s not sure from what.

His hands shake as he touches the cool plastic and metal pieces. Vince stands next to him the entire time. His eyes are trained on the door, but his hand finds its way onto Howard’s shoulder, and Howard feels Gadget’s hand there too. He finds the fuses, swallows, and he’s doing it. He’s not going there ( _inches away_ ) wherever there is. People need him here and he can make himself stay.

He removes the broken fuses, replaces them. He checks the others and finds several that have burned out. He replaces them.

The lights come back on in the hall. Howard is about to pull the string on the bulb in the cupboard but Vince stops him. “Hang on,” he says. He rifles through the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for. They’re a tiny pair of aviators. He carefully tucks them behind Gadget’s ears and smiles.

“You’ll go down like a genius out there,” he says. He takes out a mirror and Howard watches the reflected bodmai admire himself and primp. “Those glasses look well cool.”

Howard smiles, “Done proselytizing for the church of vanity?” he asks as harshly as he can make himself.

Vince’s eyes light up with delight and he laughs, “It’s not just vanity. It’s functional.” He pulls on the string and the bulb flares bright. Gadget looks at it and doesn’t squeal. “See?” Vince asks. “Practical and adorable.” He ruffles the fur between Gadget’s ears and hands him the mirror. The bodmai stares at his reflection for a moment longer before he tucks the mirror away into the backpack.

Vince picks up the bassoon again and takes a step toward the door. He turns back, “Alright,” he says, “Keep behind me like you have been. It’s just two of them now.”

Seeing him with the bassoon again calls it back home. They’re not out of the woods yet, and, in the light, Vince looks even more beaten up than he had before. _He’s mortal_. Howard swallows, “The one with the mohawk...” he says, trailing off.

“Slash,” Vince states.

“Yeah. I think he’s the leader. He seemed to be giving them their cues. Just… watch out for him.”

Vince smiles. “Sure.”

“Vince,” Howard says, uneasily.

“It’s going to be fine,” Vince says automatically. “Trust me.”

It sounds like a statement. _Trust me_ , but the more Howard turns it over in his mind, the more he hears it as a question. _Trust me?_ like Vince isn’t sure that Howard really does, like he needs to know that, yes, in fact, Howard does trust him. Is trusting him, with his life, and Gadget’s, and even Vince’s own, and there isn’t anyone Howard would rather have in his place.

It’s easy, sometimes, for Howard to forget that underneath all of Vince’s… Vinceness, there is a person who has insecurities like anyone else.

His eyes are locked on Howard’s, anyway, like he needs to see or hear something before he can continue. 

Vince is right there with him, he realizes. He’s at the edge, too, but his edge just looks different. He doesn’t know how exactly. Maybe a wrecked and blasted plain of bones and decay, maybe a verdant jungle rife with spikes and poison, but Vince is at his edge, and, somehow, he’s counting on Howard to keep him from falling off.

Howard is frozen. He’s gone mute again, under the weight of all of it. 

The horror of fighting for their lives, the words that have at last been said between them, but are too inadequate to express the truth, the realization that he can hurt Vince as much or more than Vince can hurt him; that he has done, and Vince can somehow forgive him. 

Howard has never been more terrified in his life, but Vince is there with him. They are keeping each other above. Together, they won’t slip below.

He loves Vince and trusts him. He wants them both to live through this so he can spend years proving it. 

At last, Howard nods. He puts his hand on Vince’s shoulder and holds him there. _I trust you_.

Something in Vince’s expression eases. “Okay,” he says. He looks toward the door.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s funny, how it all falls back into place. He hears the whispering voice (quiet and deadly as a blade drawn across a whetstone) instructing him about placing his feet, about how to hunt, about how to avoid being hunted. Those are the lessons he draws on now, the ones about where to watch for an ambush, the ones about how to sense rather than see.

Jahooli had never understood how limited Vince’s sense of smell is. Always used to say things like _scent the blood on the wind, let the stink of fear guide you_. All sorts of weird, macabre, smell-based advice Vince couldn’t really follow.

Instead, he had to learn to read shadow and light, how to notice pattern or color where it didn’t belong, how to use his eyes like they were fingers reaching out into the deep jungle ahead of him. It used to be that he could feel texture and heat with nothing more than a glance. It’s coming back to him. Slowly.

He peeks out of the storage cupboard, toward the shop proper.

The lights help his visual acumen. He sees the rainbow of fairy lights twinkling, the village he set up in the shop window glows warmly, the fluorescents overhead burn with bright, toxic fury. They usually keep them off. Vince hates fluorescent lights, but he’s glad of them now. It’s so bright, he’ll be sure to notice a shadow when it moves. The dark will be like a beacon. They won’t be able to hide from him for long.

Vince rolls his shoulders (the slight burn he feels lets him know that he’s going to be in for it later) and taps the bassoon softly against his boot, “Both ready?” 

Neither Howard nor Gadget object, so Vince takes it as a silent _as we’ll ever be_ (yeah, me too). He nods and edges back to the door. Together, they leave the storage cupboard.

Vince is hunting, but he’s being hunted too. He senses it in the too still air of the shop, senses it and it is almost like he _can_ smell it. It’s information that goes directly into his bones, into his guts, without passing through his brain.

The world is sharp, clear, but it’s also dangerous and deadly. Everything can cut tonight (better watch your step).

Vince stops. He doesn’t know why, at first, he decides to stop, but he does. Howard bumps into him. Vince reaches out to steady him.

They are standing just before the counter in the hall. 

One will be there.

He knows it without needing to see. He pushes gently on Howard’s chest, wordlessly tells him to remain in place. 

Howard who is being so brave. 

Vince will do this, will do anything, for Howard.

His fingers trail reluctantly across Howard’s front (he doesn’t want to let him go) (but he has to) before he grips the bassoon again. He tightens his fists, wraps his hands tight, draws in a breath and then he moves, fluid and irresistible.

The bassoon follows him. He and it turn the corner together. The gremlin looks up at him with eyes that go wide, with a grin that slowly falls. Vince is swinging down. His shoulders shout, his forearms ache as the force of his swing carries him forward. 

And then it goes wrong.

The shelf next to him, he realizes, is at a funny angle. Because it’s tipping over. The weight of the bassoon combined with the force of his swing pulls him inexorably forward, directly between the shelf and the counter. He tries to stop himself, to lean away, but all he succeeds in doing is pulling his strike wide. The gremlin ducks under the bassoon (Vince clips an ear) and hops toward the shelter of the counter. Vince watches it skitter between falling debris (the alligator falls just in front of it, the glass eyes look at Vince apologetically) before he loses sight of it around the corner.

The shelf creaks like a galleon in a hurricane. He lets go of the bassoon and raises his arm to defend himself from the impact too late. It slams into his shoulder with enough force that numbness runs down his left arm. He gets knocked into the counter, the corner of it wedged just under his last rib on his right side. He sees stars, hears the crash and snap of snow globes shattering on the floor. A large, blue robot careens over his head, its boxy torso discharges its arms with a metallic clang.

He forces himself to inhale. It fucking _hurts_. He closes his eyes to get his vision to stop swimming.

Howard yells. Vince can’t see why, but he’s got a guess.

His whole right arm burns, which is funny, since his fingers on that hand feel numb. He flexes his hand. It feels like he’s wearing thick winter gloves. The hard angle of one of the shelves digs into the meat of his upper arm, like a dull-edged knife. His left hand is sprayed uselessly over the counter. He tries to grip onto something to shove himself up against, but it’s no good. He pushes against the weight of the shelf, attempts to right it, but the pain combined with the angle he’s trapped at make it impossible. The shelf simply will not budge. He keeps trying in any case as Howard’s cries grow more frantic. 

“Stay back, you!” Howard shouts.

 _Christ, fuck, Jesus, hell, and damn._

Then, something clamps down on his ankle, _hard_. Vince kicks his feet, he slips, but he makes contact with a body. The creature yelps, releases him, but it comes back. It gnaws and chews at the leather cowboy boots, growling like a dog gone mad. Vince thrashes like it’s going to make a difference, but he’s struggling to get his breath, struggling to keep his feet, unable to see his attacker, unable to break out of the trap which has ensnared him so effectively.

“No, no, just... stay there,” Howard says. He’s being driven backward. He can hear Howard’s voice getting further away, he can hear the hysteria leeching into it.

Vince’s fingers grasp uselessly, he grips the edge of the counter, the edge of a shelf. He pushes, shoves, kicks, and slips; all to no effect. 

Howard _wails_ , Gadget utters a high, piercing shriek.

Vince feels hot tears blooming in his eyes at the futility of it all. He’s useless. He can’t help Howard and Gadget, and he hates it, hates himself for how weak he is, how incapable. He is slipping into an undertow, he’s giving up, starting to accept the inevitable.

He stops kicking. It hurts too much. He’s ready to give in.

But then, the narrowest glimpse of twisted wire branch, of clinging sellotape. It’s been left, somehow, still untouched. Stationery village winks at him like a tiny, idealized Bedford Falls, the little fairy lights he found for it visible just beyond this place where he has been trapped in doubt and pain. 

He sees Howard fussing over it, sorting everything into its proper place, where, somehow (god alone knows how) it has been left. Because, even when it seems otherwise, there is _always_ a possibility.

The thought crystalizes, comes to life. 

It might not be probable, but it’s still _possible_ for him to make it out of this trap, for him to help Howard and Gadget, for all three of them to be just fucking fine.

And if it’s still possible, Vince has to fight. 

He kicks again, he struggles again, but he knows something has to change.

He has to think. He has to... ( _Lift from the legs. Saves the back_ ) (Howard’s voice).

Vince looks up at the shelf looming over him. It’s heavy, but he’s got to be able to move it, if only he can get at it from the right angle, if only he can use his legs.

He wrenches himself sideways and the shelf scrapes against his jacket, digs into his shoulder. It hurts worse each time as his skin gets scraped raw, but he does it again and again until he’s twisted himself around the other way, so that the shelf is against his back. It’s a worse angle for defending himself (he’s crouched lower, his chest pressed against the counter, his knees bent awkwardly) but he has to get free.

His fingers quest under the counter, searching for purchase. The gremlin leaves off his ankles and it jumps up onto him and bites and claws at his side (an enthusiastic, aimless assault) (a proper goring). 

He feels each tear of claw and rip of tooth, but the pain is like a secondary experience. He’s living in a reality where he’s being crushed by a shelf, where it is imperative that he breaks free of this confinement. Another Vince somewhere else is the one who is being mercilessly savaged. That Vince is catching the full heat of the pain. The pain he feels is like sympathy pain, like it’s not quite happening to him at all. 

Which is good, because he can’t afford to feel it.

He slips further under the counter. His upper back slides into one of the spaces between the shelves, his shoulders rest just under the corner of it, the line of wood presses against his neck. Feeling starts pulsing back into his hand, which seems cheering. He braces his feet and his hands as best he can against the counter. Then, with absolutely _fucking_ everything he’s got, he pushes up from his thighs ( _Lift from the legs. Saves the back,_ he hears Howard instructing again) ( _whatever_ , Vince hears himself reply like he’s got no intention of listening) (but he was listening) (of course he was) and the shelf starts to lift.

Vince lifts through pain, through the attack that he cannot defend himself against, through the cries of Howard and Gadget, through all of it, thinking the whole while of something else, somewhere else. Another time. 

Him and Howard lifting the shelf into place, Howard instructing him how to lift, Howard bemoaning the lack of anchors to secure it up with (shelves like these fall over and crush people all the time) (not if you don’t tip it) (hundreds of toddlers get crushed by shelves like these every year) (we haven’t got a toddler, have we?) (yeah, well, we have you and that’s _worse_ ) (get lost) (just look how you’re leaning on it right now, draping yourself over it like a blanket; you lean on it like that and you’re liable to knock it over and _wham_ crush me flat) (you are so _paranoid_ )…

The shelf wobbles up. The gremlin does its level best to stop its progress. Claws rake Vince’s skin, teeth grind against his bones. He doesn’t let it matter. He pushes and pushes until he doesn’t have to anymore.

The shelf rocks back and forth gently as it returns to its proper position. Vince looks down at his assailant.

It’s Slash.

The fucker. 

He grins at Vince evilly through a mask of Vince’s blood.

Vince wants to end him. He’s surprised by how viscerally he wants it. In front of him is his enemy. In front of him is the thing that has menaced his friends, the thing which was foolish enough to think that it could do such with no consequences. Vince wants to make him pay.

It’s only Howard’s cries that stop him from wrapping his hands around Slash’s throat then and there. He hesitates a moment too long and Slash scampers off, laughing. Vince half wants to chase him, but Howard needs him, urgently, so it will have to wait, the reckoning that they two need to have. He pivots, pushes himself off the counter and runs down the hall with nothing but his own two hands.

Howard is backed into a corner, but he’s not being attacked. He’s being harassed. The gremlin in front of him is hissing and spitting at him, but it’s not actually hurting him. Vince is briefly stunned before he sees the sweets that are all over the floor. Howard has a handful of them that he tosses at the gremlin like he’s feeding an aggressive goose at a duck pond. “Yum-yums,” it croaks as the rainbow of Jelly Babies fall toward its greedily reaching fingers.

Howard meets Vince’s eye. _Kill it!_

Vince looks around him for something to use as a weapon, sees a brass oil lamp that will probably serve. He reaches for it just as clawed hands close around his wounded ankles (pain bright as fireworks radiates up his calves). Vince looks down, just to confirm what he already knows, sees the white mohawk peering up at him and swears.

Slash calls out and his compatriot stops munching snacks. It turns toward Vince, flashes a grin and breaks into a run.

“No!” Howard screams. 

Slash yanks back on Vince’s ankles. He’s trying to pull Vince down, but he can’t quite manage it. Vince sways, but stays up. He grips the shelf next to him, catches himself on it. The shelf tips down where Vince is grabbing it, the other end rises into the air.

Time moves slowly. Howard’s shout is stretching out, the gremlin running at him is only halfway to him, everything on the shelf is sliding and crashing to the floor.

The lamp. It twists in the air, a reflected line of fairy lights winks bright on the brass as it plummets. He reaches for it.

His hand closes around the handle. 

He throws it down as hard as possible onto Slash’s head.

There is a dull gong as the lamp pings him. The gremlin’s hands spring up toward his injured head. Vince has a millisecond to throw himself out of the path of the second gremlin barreling toward him. It flies past him like an errant missile and skids to a stop near the barber chair.

Vince pushes off from the wall. Slash is still stunned near his feet. Vince levels a heaving kick at him (unloading as much anger and frustration into it as he can) and punts him into the corner of the counter. There’s a snap and he doesn’t get up. Vince sneers at the corpse before he turns on the other, nameless gremlin.

Its eyes widen and it starts to run, possibly thinks to skitter off. It claws its way up two of the stairs before Howard strides forward. He calls to it, “Hey!”

The gremlin turns around. Howard tosses a can of Diet Coke up at it. The gremlin takes it, studies it. “Pop the top,” Howard encourages.

It looks at Vince. He freezes in place and tries to look nonthreatening. 

The gremlin considers Howard, who has fed it. Howard who it can bully.

It bites into the can. The can hisses and sprays. A lot of the cola pours out onto the floor, but the gremlin swallows plenty of it, chugging like a first-year college student. It empties the can and burps. It looks down at them like it’s not quite sure what to do, now. 

It sneers, then takes the empty can and throws it at Howard, hitting him in the shoulder (Howard cringes, Vince’s eyes narrow) (Howard holds up a quick, steadying hand toward him) ( _not yet_ ). 

“Yum-yums,” the gremlin demands.

“Yes,” Howard says. He reaches behind him. Gadget quickly hands him a packet of salt-water taffy. Howard opens it and tosses a few pieces at the gremlin’s feet. The gremlin crams a piece, wrapper and all, into its mouth. It chews deliberatively then grabs the other two pieces off the floor. Howard tosses three more pieces at the gremlin and it picks them up one by one, suitably distracted.

Howard reaches for the long strand of old-fashioned, large glass-bulbed fairy lights that Vince lined the stairs with (his protest lights) and he pulls at it. The strand slips down the wall as it is pulled free of the thumbtacks that it was secured up with. Vince doesn’t move. He only watches Howard coil the end around his fist. He’s careful to leave slack, careful to leave the strand plugged in. 

He tosses another taffy at the gremlin, and the greedy creature stoops to pick it up. 

The move is sudden as a springing mousetrap. Howard swings the lights like a whip. The bulbs burn in a bright rainbow arc before they smash on the stairs in the pool of the wet soda. There is a terrible buzz (bug frying in a bug zapper), strobing electric flashes (pyrotechnics at a Kiss show) that illuminate the tense, jerking body of the gremlin, and then another pop (loud and final) that kills the lights in the shop again.

Kills the gremlin too.

Vince is trembling. He looks over at Howard.

“Old lights like this really aren’t safe, you know,” he says, dropping the strand. It falls limply to the floor, like a dead snake. “Haven’t got the little fuses in, so you can just...” Howard shrugs, nods toward what (Vince can smell) is a charred corpse. “Dangers of the season,” he adds, quietly.

Reality feels distant, partially out of the joy of survival (they did it, they’ve actually made it), partially from the adrenalin that still whips through his blood like a sandstorm. He knows that he’s going to feel it soon (the soreness, the exhaustion) but those things are coming at him from a long way off.

What he sees (so close he could touch him) is Howard. The fact that he isn’t touching him seems like one he should do everything in his power to controvert. He rushes forward, puts his hands on either side of Howard’s face, and pulls him in for a kiss. 

It’s sloppy, the kiss, a kiss of emotion, of excitement and enthusiasm. It’s the sort of kiss you’d never mention if you had to put together a snogging CV, not even under a special skills section. Only place this kiss belongs is right here, in this shop, at this moment, when they’ve just nearly died, and they’re both too happy to be alive for anything else to matter to either of them but the other. Vince is so happy, that he laughs a little before he can stop himself. 

Howard’s arm has wrapped around his back, their hips are pressed together, Vince’s right foot has lifted off the floor (like he’s the girl in a romance in danger of floating up into the sky). He peeks up at Howard through his fringe, “Genius,” he says, grinning.

“You were brilliant, too,” Howard says, low.

Vince looks at Gadget, “And you,” he says, ruffling the fur between Gadget’s ears. “I saw you with those taffies.”

Gadget purrs and says, “Bright light boom.”

“I’ll say,” Howard agrees. “I’m going to have to go back to the DIY and buy more fuses. If they even sell fuses. Maybe I can get Naboo to finally do the electrical and then...” he trails off. His eyes go wide. “He was just there,” Howard says.

Vince turns behind him. Sure enough, the place where Slash had been slumped is empty. Which can only mean—

Vince lets go of Howard. Every hair stands on end as endorphins and adrenaline spin together in a cocktail that is spoiled with fear. He doesn’t know why, but he is afraid now, when he wasn’t before. It’s taken so very nearly everything to get them to this point. How much more does Vince have?

Will it be enough?

There is a snicker in the dark, like Slash can read his thoughts, like he’s wondering the same thing and coming to a pleasant conclusion.

“Go upstairs,” Vince says.

“No,” Howard replies.

“Just go. Please. I don’t—”

The movement that explodes out of the dark startles the words out of Vince. He doesn’t move, prepares himself for a blow that does not come.

Instead, Slash leaps over him and Howard, leaps onto the stairs. Vince turns, grits his teeth, and grabs at him, but he isn’t fast enough to stop him. He darts out of Vince’s reach and clambers up the stairs, cackling madly. Vince dashes up after him.

“Vince!” Howard shouts, but Vince doesn’t heed him. He feels in the pit of his stomach that something awful is going to happen, something badly wrong.

The flat is pitch dark. The fairy lights downstairs were apparently enough to do for the whole service. The torch beam follows jerkily behind him and he hears Howard huff up the stairs behind him. Vince reaches back for the light and Howard hands it to him.

He turns the torch over the flat. The kitchen and living room look empty. Vince walks forward, turns in a circle.

The bathroom door is ajar.

The significance of this doesn’t fully hit him until he hears the plumbing creak, until he hears water slap the bottom of the tub. Vince sprints down the hall, knowing already that it’s too late. The thing has been done.

The premonition solidifies into reality as he throws open the bathroom door.

Slash sits on the lip of the tub. He grins at Vince cheekily, gives him a wave, then he tumbles backward. Vince reaches for him like he might be able to stop him with his force of will alone (he can’t). There is a splash. Then...

It starts with a discordant moan of sound, like two alley cats in a fight, then there is smoke that pours out of the tub in a thick, low fog across the linoleum. There is a pop (like when they spilled the water on Gadget) but there, the similarities end. The balls that spring off of Slash are dark and spiked, deadly looking, and... so, so many.

A laser show of green search lights dances across the ceiling. More balls pop and pop and pop, like popcorn, like an endless supply of gumballs, like a ball pit at a playground that is so deep it will swallow you up.

Vince jumps a mile when Howard’s hand closes on his arm, “Come on!” Howard says. He pulls Vince toward the stairs for a step, but then he freezes as the first of the gremlins unfold. Six of them, then ten of them, then twenty.

They’re both paralyzed for a moment, then Vince realizes that whatever they’re doing, they’d better not stay here. He pulls Howard into Howard’s bedroom, bolts the door and starts pulling Howard’s dresser in front of it. Howard goes around the other side of it and helps him shove it from the other end.

Just in time.

Claws skitter and scrape. The gremlins hiss and laugh, they shout, and bang against the walls.

All the while, that strange green light creeps under Howard’s door; nightmarish evergreen tendrils of light that reach for them like fingers clawing up out of dirt. “Shit,” Vince says.

“Shit,” Howard agrees.

Out in the flat the gremlins unfold. They shake their heads, wiggle their fingers, scent the air; they are newly alive and hungry for destruction. The flat becomes crowded, more crowded than it has even been, even for the wildest party that it has ever seen.

The wildest party the flat has ever seen is about to be this one anyway.

Slash crawls up out of the tub, his skin still water-slick and bubbling. His minions turn to him worshipfully as smoke cascades off his body. He snaps his fingers and a towel gets thrust at him. He shakes out his mohawk and jumps up onto the vanity sink. He turns on the hair dryer that is still plugged into the wall, but nothing happens. He hisses angrily and tosses it down onto one of the gremlins below. “Zap zap,” he commands.

Ten gremlins leap to do his bidding. A shoving match starts in the hall as they try to rush past the kitchen toward the stairs.

The rest of the flat crawls with gremlins. They swarm like ants across every single flat surface, ripping, clawing, destroying, hunting, shouting, fighting...

In the kitchen, one of them bites into an unpeeled banana, gags on the bitter taste, and throws it across the flat where it splats satisfyingly against the wall. It crawls over the kitchen counter, knocking aside anything that isn’t edible, greedily cramming anything that is into its mouth. It jumps to the top of the refrigerator, opens the small cabinets above. A dusty bottle of Bailey’s, caster sugar, treacle, and a packet of unspoiled biscuits—It’s hit the jackpot. 

It reaches for the biscuits a second too late. Eight of its fellows leap up behind it. They claw and pull at one another, wrestling for the treasure. The biscuit packet gets pulled apart, a spray of chocolatey, crunchy biscuits goes flying. They all want them. A knot of squabbling forms on top of the fridge and in the cabinets. 

One gets ejected over the side, tossed like it’s been bounced out of a pub. Two more fight over a biscuit they have both seized, slapping and swatting at one another. A third takes advantage of their confrontation. It pushes them off the edge of the fridge with a laugh, but its ankle gets seized and it finds itself being dragged over the edge. It grasps desperately backward to save itself, grabs the bag of sugar. 

The gremlin still hanging onto its ankle swings against the fridge, starts trying to climb back up to the top. The gremlins above fight it, swiping at it as it climbs.

Giving up on getting back up to the fridge, it does the next best thing. It plants its feet against the freezer, pushes off with all its strength, and drags the gremlin it’s using for a lifeline closer to the edge, the sugar comes with it. The gremlin above tries to stop itself going over, thrashing uselessly. It holds onto the bag of sugar with one hand, feels the bag slowly tipping over as the gremlin below gives a final tug then… they fall.

The gremlins rotate in the air, the bag hangs above their heads for a moment, and then _thump, thump, thump_ they both hit the floor. The bag falls directly on top of them. 

It bursts apart and white crystals go everywhere.

The gremlins are covered with a film of sugar. One of them licks its lips, tastes the sweetness, and instantly goes wild. It stuffs its face into the pile at its feet and starts chowing. As soon as one begins, the rest join in. A slurping, crunching mass of them stick their hands into the sugar and cram it into their mouths. Another fight breaks out at the base of the refrigerator as the sugar starts becoming scarce. Luckily, the jar of treacle gets thrown off the top of the fridge and another round of slurping ensues.

In the shop, a crew has managed to pry up the keyboard cover. A gang of them are playing together discordantly, shouting as much as singing along, a melody that none of them can quite find but all of them are very enthusiastic about.

The rest of the gremlins down in the shop occasionally chip in a note or two as they wreak havoc.

A pair of them rummage behind the shop counter. They find a stash of cosmetics and hair product. One of them opens a compact of eyeshadow and then tosses it aside. The other unscrews a tube of lipstick and rubs it over its lips. Its companion snickers, opens a bottle of nail varnish and drinks it. The gremlin gags on the varnish and then spits it straight into the face of the other. Punches get thrown.

There is a team in the storage cupboard. They fiddle with the electrical, ripping out fuses, flipping breakers, and crossing wires. One is lost to electrocution, but another takes its place. They accomplish their mission. The power comes back. The lights flare on and they scream until one of them chucks something up at the bare bulb above them and shatters it.

In the living room, the sofa is being shredded. Batting hangs out of the cushions, every one of the pillows have been torn in half. One of the cases is being worn as a kaftan by a gremlin that has positioned itself in front of the telly. As soon as the power comes back on, the telly flares to life and a cheer goes up. 

The kaftaned gremlin presses the buttons on the remote, turns the volume up as high as it will go, and tries to find something good to watch. As soon as the others realize what it is the remote does, another fight starts. The gremlins wrestle with one another for control of it until one of them gets punched through the screen.

Next to them, a team plays a game of cricket with a rolling pin and some ornaments. Or, really, they pitch ornaments at one another and smash the fragile glass against the rolling pin, spraying it over one another in a fine, glittery glass powder that twinkles as it falls over them.

In the bathroom, Slash finishes his hair. The natural mohawk has been styled into wicked points, his eyes have been given a thick lining of black pencil. He grins at himself in the mirror as one of his minions hands him a black leather jacket.

He steps out of the bathroom and surveys the chaos before him with a grin. As he strides forward, the gremlins part to either side of him. 

Three shuffle nervously toward him. They bear a parcel. He watches them haughtily as they lay it before his feet and unwrap it. The bundle of tools is precisely what they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels appropriate at this point to apologize for mucking up the fandom (and Vince) with a whole lot of blood and guts. So, you know, um... sorry. 
> 
> But, hey! We're almost done! I'm hoping to get the rest up before Christmas Eve. Barring any major creative differences with my past self, I think we'll get there. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

Howard watches Vince pace like a caged animal. The end of Howard’s bed, past the door, the edge of his desk, heel, toe, spin, repeat. He turns a resentful eye on the wall as he patrols the narrow strip of floor he’s claimed as his own. He chews at his lip. “Fuck,” Vince says. “Where the fuck is Naboo?”

It’s a good question. Howard wishes the answer was _here_ and not _who fucking knows?_ because they could really use him right now. They need magic, they need a miracle, they need what they haven’t got. _What they aren’t going to get_. Too late, say your prayers, kiss your arse goodbye, it’s done.

Howard’s face feels clammy. He reaches a hand up to wipe away the cold sweat that has broken out on his skin. “He’s not coming,” he whispers. He can’t help it. The yawning chasm of hopelessness before his feet is too tempting, too irresistible to avoid falling into. “We’re dead,” he says.

Vince stops in place next to Howard’s desk and looks at him. Howard expects him to say something optimistic, to offer some reassurance. But he doesn’t. “Fuck,” he says again. He says it perhaps a score of times, chants it like a mantra. He slaps the top of Howard’s desk with his palm. He shakes his head, laughs bitterly and says it once more as though to ensure he’s said it enough. 

“I should have made sure,” Vince says. “I shouldn’t have stopped until I knew—”

“We all thought he was dead,” Howard says, bleakly. He sees again the slumped over gremlin next to the shop counter. He certainly looked dead, when Howard had run past him, he didn’t look like something that needed to be watched. He looked as inert as a broken toy. “I didn’t imagine for a moment that you hadn’t killed him.” 

Howard hears a shivery, rustling sort of whine coming from behind his shoulder. He glances back and doesn’t see Gadget. He’s hidden himself in the depths of the backpack.

Howard sighs and slowly slings the backpack off his shoulder. He unhooks Lester’s bag from the bottom and sets it on his bed, then he puts the backpack on the floor. He carefully extracts Gadget. The bodmai is shaking when Howard takes him out. He trembles in Howard’s hands like a fretful rabbit, his ears are flat and angled sideways.

Howard recognizes the position.

He’s the very picture of pathetic.

He gives Gadget an awkward little pat as he sets him on the bed. It’s the best he can do. It’s Vince who does the cheering up, the sunshine and all.

Any second now, Vince will start up. The _it’s not so bad_ the _it’ll be alright_. It’s coming. Any second…

Howard looks over at him and he turns his face away, like he can’t stand being looked at. Howard swallows. 

Outside his door, it sounds like the flat is being torn apart. It had sounded like a battlefield with seven gremlins loose, with however many more there are now, it sounds like a veritable apocalypse. There is no one sound to focus on. It’s just endless noise, so much you can hardly parse what’s what. A wall of breaks, smashes, shatters, yells, laughs, gongs, and bangs assaults him all at once, with no reason behind any of it. It’s a bad acid trip of noise. It’s everywhere, all the time, and even though you want to wake up, you can’t, because you aren’t dreaming.

Howard does pick up one thing though. The sound of the piano down in the shop, accompanied by harsh, yelling voices. No amount of looping, through an old shoe or otherwise, could save it.

Howard stifles a hysterical giggle that turns into a bit of a sob behind his hand.

He feels a tug at his trouser leg and Gadget is looking up at him with his sad amber eyes. Howard reaches down and the bodmai’s tiny hand wraps around his finger. Gadget looks toward Vince.

Howard looks at him too.

Vince is staring down at Howard’s floor. He’s gone still and quiet. Howard can’t remember him being this still ever in his life. Vince is always moving, his body is always dancing, or shifting, his hands, his hips, _something_ , is always mobile. Not now though. He’s frozen still. Like he’s been trapped in acrylic resin.

He looks like he’s been beaten within an inch of his life. He _has_ been beaten within an inch of his life. It would have been easy for that damned shelf to have crushed him down in the shop; Howard promises himself that he’ll be going to the DIY tomorrow to get anchors for the fucking thing. Then he’ll update the electrical, he’ll reinforce the railing, he’ll put anti-slip treads on the stairs; play with fire and expect to get burned, so Howard will personally put out every possible source of ignition if he has to spend himself into the poorhouse to do it, he’ll inoculate Vince against any danger he can, he promises himself that he will, until he remembers how uncertain tomorrow is. 

Vince’s pajamas are completely shredded. The white jacket he’s wearing is now very much a _formerly_ white jacket. It looks like the vest Bruce Willis wears throughout _Die Hard_ , it’s gone so dirty. He’s covered in his own blood, in the blood of gremlins, his hair a complete and uncontrolled riot.

He’s posed somewhere between abject despair and deep regret. He’s frozen somewhere he’s not really meant to be.

“We almost did it,” Howard half-whispers across the void of his dark room. It’s his attempt at cheer, a pathetic emissary of hope that shows up in patched up dinghy in the middle of a category four hurricane with a tarp and a pack of batteries. It’s pretty shit, but still. He’s trying.

Vince doesn’t respond. He just continues staring off at nothing. 

Howard thinks of Vince with the bassoon, Vince with his improvised flamethrower. He revises his statement, “ _You_ almost did it.” 

Vince reanimates, fixes Howard with a look, “ _Almost_ ain’t doing it, though, is it?” he closes his eyes, and, for the second time that night, a track of tears is visible across his cheeks. “I wasn’t enough,” his voice is so soft, that it’s hardly able to be heard. His expression goes through a bitter transformation from blank, to melancholy, to a sort of twisted smile, “I never am.” 

“What are you talking about?” Howard asks. “Not enough? Jesus, Vince, how much more could you… Christ, have you had the same night that I have?”

Vince doesn’t say anything. Howard crosses the room so that he’s standing in front of him. It’s like it was earlier, when the pods first formed, when Vince was the one who was panicking and Howard was suddenly free to… not. Howard is still despairing, but it’s not taking up all of him, because Vince is the one who has gone hopeless and lost.

Howard can’t stand it. 

“You’ve been incredible. The whole time,” he says. “I can’t believe that you…” Vince won’t meet Howard’s eye. He just stares off at Howard’s bookshelves, or something else a million miles distant. Somehow, Howard isn’t on the right track. These aren’t the words that Vince needs to hear. Howard’s lips compress into a line, “Vince, if anyone wasn’t good enough tonight, it was me.”

That does it. Vince looks up at him, “Howard—”

“It’s true. You do realize why we’re in this mess?”

Vince laughs, “Yeah, because of all those things you said before. Because I’m irresponsible, because I don’t think things through, because—”

Howard hates hearing his words coming out of Vince’s mouth, particularly when they’re so _wrong_. “No. No, that’s not why. It’s because of me. I knocked over that glass, I acted like a complete and utter arsehole, ballbag, shit-stain, cock sucking, dickheaded… berk.” Howard catches Vince’s hand, “I let you down. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”

“It’s not,” Vince says. “I fed them, Howard. You just—"

“You didn’t do it on purpose,” Howard insists. “You aren’t to blame for any of this.”

Vince doesn’t look like he believes him. His eyes are big and liquid, he fiddles with the cuff of his jacket, then stops. “I wanted to fix it,” he says, his voice small. “For you. Fix something, just once, and… I couldn’t do it.”

“That’s alright. You’re not meant to fix things on your own.” Howard says, he tucks his bandaged hand up against Vince’s chin, gently follows the line of his pulse with his fingertips. “We’re a… a team. Remember? Each only half a person,” he teases, “Half a person shouldn’t have to try and sort things out by themselves.”

Vince smiles weakly. He’s still heartbroken. Howard wants to pour something into the fractures and cracks, something that will pull him back together and shore him up. 

He doesn’t know where to start, how to begin. He’s got no experience at it. This is what Vince does, for him, all the time. Easy as breathing. Just a word, a look, a moment, a touch, and he pulls tight the strings on Howard’s heart and keeps it sewn together. 

_I wasn’t enough. I never am._

The words are something too deep and cutting to be anything but Vince’s deepest truth, yet Howard can hardly believe them. How many times has he marveled at Vince’s confidence? At his willingness to believe that he deserves all the good that happens to him?

But he thinks, too, of Vince with new people, the subtle (and not so subtle) ways he reshapes himself for others. He dresses up and plays at being things that don’t quite fit him, entertains a rotating cast of people, always at the periphery, always at a distance where they _see_ him, but none of them actually _know_ him. 

But Howard does, and he knows precisely _how much_ Vince is.

It’s a little like pain, the feeling that beats against Howard’s ribcage like a frantic bird. It feels like something he needs to hold in, something that won’t survive if he lets it out into the world on its own, but something that is still, at the same time, desperate to be free, that needs to fly. Vince needs to hear it and Howard… might not have that many more chances to tell him.

Howard traces Vince’s knuckles with his forefinger, glides over the scraped and bruised skin of his hand. “You’re enough,” he says softly, “You’re more than enough. You’re… you’re everything.”

Vince startles. “Howard…” he says. He withdraws his hand, tucks it away in what remains of a pocket. He’s so unsure, so wary, like Howard is going to… what? “You can’t mean that,” he says at length.

“Of course, I do,” Howard tells him. “I can’t believe it. Every time I’m with you, every time you touch me, I can’t believe it. I think I’m going to wake up. That it’ll all have been a dream and it can’t have happened.”

Howard might be confessing to a triple murder for the look at Vince is giving him. It’s something like terror, or shock; like he’s somehow incapable of living with the words Howard is saying. “Don’t,” Vince whispers. He doesn’t want to hear this. 

“Why not?” Howard asks him, “Tell me what—”

“I’m going to let you down! I already have. Christ. I… I’m not… I can’t… This is it, Howard. This is it,” he says, patting himself from his belly to his chest, “This is all I am. I can’t _be_ more.”

“I don’t need more,” Howard says. “I couldn’t possibly need more. What do you mean _it?_ Do you have any bloody idea—”

“I know what I am,” Vince says hotly. His hands are trembling. He wraps them together. He sighs, “And what I’m not.”

Howard hears what Vince has said, and he knows that he believes it, but if he’s saying it _like that_ , then he’s wrong.

“So do I,” Howard says.

Vince laughs, a pale facsimile of true amusement, “No, you don’t.”

Howard might not know what to say to fix what it is Vince is feeling, it’s possible that there isn’t anything _to_ say that would, but there is one thing that he does know how to do. Something they’ve done together from the very beginning. Their own stupid game, just between the two of them, where no one wins, and no one loses, and nothing means anything. Vince parrying, Howard pressing forward.

He just has to start.

“I think I do, sir,” Howard says. 

Vince looks up at him, with recognition in his eyes. He understands what Howard is trying to do.

_Do this with me, Vince. A pointless argument with a point. Just this once._

Vince shakes his head. Howard thinks that he’s going to refuse, but then his eyes flick toward the ceiling and down again. He has the slightest spark of a smile on when he says, “You don’t.” _Go ahead, then._

“You’re an idiot.”

“Alright,” Vince squawks.

“You are,” Howard says. 

Vince shoots him a glare _this is really helpful, Howard_. 

_Well, give it a minute_ , Howard thinks back at him. “Just… you think you can fool people… not people. You can fool _people_ , but you think you can fool _me_ , and that you can’t do.”

“I’ve fooled you plenty.”

“You’ve been fooling no one but yourself, sir. I know all your secrets, little man.”

Vince looks slyly amused. He’s warming to the game. “Do you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Going to prove it, are you?”

“I will.”

“Alright. Let’s have it.”

It’s working, Howard can see. It’s like falling into step in a dance, it’s like the fucking Macarena, they both know the moves. The music starts and its compulsory. It makes it possible to forget what’s gone wrong, what happened. It makes it possible to forget anything that isn’t the two of them. 

Howard clears his throat, “You pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about when I talk about John Coltrane, or Louis Armstrong, or Charlie Mingus, but you know who they are.” 

“Get stuffed.”

“I didn’t say you liked them, but you still know what I’m talking about, when I mention them.”

Vince blinks at him, unimpressed. _That all you’ve got?_ Howard has more.

“You like Louis Armstrong,” he hazards, “his voice, anyway. You sort of… perk up, pay a bit of attention, or something, whenever…” Vince rolls his eyes, _couldn’t be further from the truth_. Howard smirks, suddenly. “You do. You like him because I’ll sing along sometimes, and you… you like my voice.”

Vince smirks, “Bit of a brag, that.” 

“Maybe. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

Vince doesn’t say anything.

Howard presses, “I could read a shopping list and leave you bothered, I could sing _Jingle Bells_ and have you salivating, you little tart. You’re wild for my velvety vocals, my smooth pipes, my sensual croon, yes sir.”

Vince shrugs, he slouches alluringly, “You can put your pipe...” Vince looks over at Gadget. He censors himself, “Yeah, well, that’s hardly a secret.”

Howard smirks. “Alright,” he says, “You want a secret?” he asks. He lets a little bit of anticipation build while he considers. Vince looks as though he’s sure Howard is just stalling for time, but Howard isn’t. “You pretend that you don’t like Christmas music, but you do,” he says. He’s scored a mark there. Vince is surprised. 

“A lot,” Howard adds as an addendum. “You think that ugly jumpers are genius, and that fairy lights should be sold in bulk sets, and… yeah, I think that you just like the whole damned thing. You try to pretend that you don’t, but you’re a shit liar. Especially when you like something.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Because… you are just so good at… loving things. People, animals,” Howard gives Gadget a quick glance; the bodmai nods in agreement or encouragement, Howard isn’t sure, “holidays, it doesn’t matter. If you like it, you’re wild for it. You don’t go in half-measures. It just pours off you…” Howard says. “I’ve never told you, but it’s… amazing. The way you are.”

Howard is cutting it too close. Vince is going to shut down again, stop listening. He changes tack. “I fucking hate Christmas, by the by,” he says and Vince smiles. “This night has been true to form, so far as I’m concerned. It’s terrible. So, I suppose what I’m saying is that you’re wrong. Fuck Christmas.”

“What’s Christmas ever done to you, anyway?” Vince asks.

“Christmas has done more than you think,” Howard says ominously. “This year it’s tried to kill me. But, you know what? For you, I’ll go out and do the whole bit.” He speaks as though there is a future for them, as though this one night won’t be it. “The crowds and the stupid music and the needless indulgence in commercialism, and I’ll have a fucking smile on my face the whole while, if it will make you happy.”

“Come on, Howard. There’s no way. You see a gingerbread biscuit and you go red. I heard you shout at school kids for wearing paper crowns once. Every time you see that ‘this isn’t just Christmas food’ Mark’s advert you yell ‘bullshit’ over Christmas at the end. It’s mental.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know why that woman sounds like she wants to fuck braised cabbage, _that’s_ mental,” Howard says angrily, but he stops himself before he goes off the rails. “Listen, what I’m trying to say is... you’re more important to me than a very rational, well-considered, and totally appropriate dislike. You’re…” _shoot for the moon, Howard,_ “You’re my best mate. You’re my... I love you, Vince. You’re the one thing that I’ve somehow got right and even though I keep trying to fuck up, you keep forgiving me. You know that I’ll always do the same for you. You’re not perfect, but you don’t need to be, to be more than good enough for me,” Howard says. Vince looks up at him, almost shyly. “I like you just as you are,” Howard smiles, “thick, and stroppy, vain as a cockatiel, and—."

Vince very nearly knocks the air out of Howard’s lungs with the embrace he wraps him in. “Alright, enough.”

“So, you admit that you’re wrong?” Howard wheezes through Vince’s squeeze. “I know you?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. I’m too selfish a tit to let you go now that you’ve gone all sweet.” Vince leans his head on Howard’s chest. His narrow bones fit into Howard’s arms like pieces of Lego snapping together, like they have been factory designed for one another.

“Good,” Howard says. Howard feels Vince’s shoulders shake. 

He burrows tighter into Howard’s chest. “I love you.”

 _Three times_. Howard wonders if he’s ever going to lose count, stop keeping track of how many times Vince has said those words to him. He wonders if they’ll ever feel really real, or if they will always feel like they do now. It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to get tired of hearing them.

Howard reaches up and strokes Vince’s hair. It’s a tangle that swallows up Howard’s fingers like a tar pit. It’s fine, though, because Howard has no desire to extricate them. He rubs Vince’s scalp.

They hold one another in the stillness of Howard’s room. Everything around them might be falling apart, in a very literal sense, if the continued racket outside is any indication, but not this. Not right now. Maybe not ever. But then, there isn’t a whole lot of time left for it to do so in any case. The seconds that tick by aren’t coming back, they’re just gone.

Three times might be the total; all he gets his whole life. 

Fuck, he doesn’t want to die.

It’s like Vince is reading his thoughts, “We need Naboo.”

Howard huffs a laugh, “Yeah, a nice Deus ex Machina to come and bail us out, eh?”

“What are you talking about?” Vince asks. He pulls away from Howard so that they’re looking at one another. If they’re doomed anyway there really isn’t that much else to do. Howard sees the light in Vince’s eyes, _let’s keep playing_.

Howard gives Vince his best impatient glare, “The hand of god sweeping out of nowhere to clear all our problems away. It’s a plot device.”

“Plot device?” Vince says like he’s taken a sip of soured milk, “Is this going to turn into one of your budget Ted Talk fright fests?”

“Afraid you might learn something?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to try and teach me,” Vince says flatly, “probably means there’s going to be charts. Have you got a blackboard in that cupboard of yours?”

“Of course I do. The at-home blackboard is an essential convenience of modern living. Rack 21C, right along the back wall.”

The energy between them changes again. Vince blinks a series of fluttery, rapid blinks, “Have you… have you cataloged your cupboard?”

“Like a library,” Howard confirms.

“Fuck,” Vince says, his eyes slide over to the cupboard and his teeth pinch his bottom lip.

If Gadget weren’t there, Howard realizes they’d probably spend their last however long on earth trying to fuck one another through Howard’s mattress. All it takes is a properly organized cupboard and Vince’s motor starts running in overdrive. Who the hell knew?

Howard entertains a fantasy of reading Vince the cupboard’s manifest and watching the effect _that_ would have on him, but then the lights suddenly come back on. 

Or, at least, they must do outside of Howard’s room. There is a line of golden light that peeks under his door, dimly reflected on the bottom of his dresser and a unanimous squeal, like the gremlins have been taken by surprise by the flood of light. There are a series of smashes and then the light in the hall goes out.

A hairdryer might start to run.

They both seem to remember, then, that, no matter how they pretend, things are bad.

Vince gives him a final squeeze. He steps out of Howard’s arms. He sits down on the bed, in between Gadget and Lester’s bag.

Vince is talking to Gadget, ruffling his fur and pulling him in for a snuggle, but Howard barely sees it. He’s staring at Lester’s bag.

All of the things inside that bag, all of the things that Howard had been trying to prevent blowing up the flat, they’re still in there. Lester’s got a literal hoard of corrosive, destructive, _explosive_ chemicals in that bag. Things that could still very well blow up the flat.

“My god,” Howard breathes.

“What is it?” Vince asks, “Have you thought of something?”

“Lester’s got… he’s got a lot of things in that bag of his,” Howard says, quietly. “A lot of… very dangerous things.”

He reaches for the switch on his desk lamp, turns it on. The fact that it works is just a reminder of what they’re up against. They’re not just dumb animals. They’ve got a bit going on upstairs. Enough, apparently, to repair a fuse box.

But enough to see through a trap? The one downstairs hadn’t.

“We’d need to… get them close. Clump them together somehow. All in the same spot. And then, it becomes what to use.” Howard looks over at Vince. 

Vince is smiling, “You have. You’ve got an idea.”

Howard shakes his head. “We’d need to get… I don’t know.”

Vince grins. “I’ll get the blackboard,” he says.

Cruleficent has been staring at Naboo for the past hour. Staring straight at him. He might be the only thing in the whole fucking forest. Her eyes have been narrowing down and down, into tight little pinholes that she aims at him like she can mount him up on a board to keep in a dusty collector’s case using only her gaze.

Naboo is ignoring her. He hasn’t moved a muscle. It’s gone full-circle now. They’ve traveled through Dennis’s business plans, through the merits of having been to the crunch, past over-indulgences in various substances, around to Harrison’s wife.

“Give her three days without me, and Mrs. Harrison is all over me when I get back. She can’t get enough of the H Man.”

“I believe you’ll find that’s because she is _highly_ indiscriminate with her affections.”

Kirk snickers.

“What’s that?” Tony Harrison asks.

Dennis puffs a sigh through his lips. His chin is resting in his hands as he says, “Saboo is implying that your wife is a tart.”

“That I am,” Saboo agrees.

Tony Harrison sputters, “How _dare_ you? I keep her _well_ satisfied, I do.”

“With that horrible mess you call a penis?”

“The hexagonal penis is a natural wonder, a thing of beauty. Nothing messy about it.”

“Well, excuse me if I prefer my penises not to also be able to double as an alan wrench.”

“That’s right, it’s multi-purpose. Anyway, least I’ve got a penis.”

“I have a penis, Tony, and It’s bigger than yours. At least that’s what your wife said the last time I gave her a visit.”

“You slag!”

“Alright, _enough!_ ” Dennis shouts. “I will draw my blade, so help me!”

“Aw, relax, Dennis. No need to get violent.”

Saboo has a lot of good material on Tony Harrison’s wife. He might be writing it down in his spare time, memorizing it, arranging it, and then saving it for when the right opportunity arises.

Naboo’s almost come to enjoy it. All of this. He’s gone full-circle on his worry too. It’s too late to prevent anything, he’s sure. There’s no way he’s getting back to the flat and having it be fine when he gets there. It’d have been nice to get out of the forest before he started getting frostbite, but it’s too late for that too. 

So, what’s the point?

It’s definitely helping that Bollo happened to have a gummy on him that he passed to Naboo during the last near eruption of fisticuffs. He feels himself comfortably distant from everything, like he’s just watching everything on a screen, like he’s not really there at all.

It’d be nice not to be there at all. Back at home, in his room, listening to _Tusk_ through a haze of smoke. Lindsey Buckingham is an underappreciated genius… 

Naboo suddenly realizes that the words in his mind are words that are being spoken aloud.

“…underappreciated genius. _Tusk_ is a revolutionary track, it reinvents music!”

“It’s the noise in an underground station cut with a horn section. If you want to call that music, go ahead, but I call it an abomination unto god.”

“Some people can’t handle the brilliance of artists when they’re freed from commercial pressure!” Tony Harrison says. “Tusk is a complete reinvention of the Mac’s sound! They’re out on a limb.”

“A limb that should have been cut and then sprayed with Roundup.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Well, what I do know is this, I’d demand recompense too, if someone played something like that inane drivel at my birthday.”

“Precisely,” Cruleficent says. “ _Spider Lovin’_ was on my no-play list, a more sacred covenant does not exist than that between DJ and birthday girl. The punishment for this should be, _must be_ , death!”

“Now, hold on,” Naboo interjects.

“Ah, it speaks,” Cruleficent says coldly. She looks over to him, “You see how silent he has been? He knows his familiar was in the wrong.”

“You’ve been talking nonsense all night!”

“So, I suppose your attention lapsed?” She asks. “All you are is excuse after excuse. I motion the Board for a vote on the issue. Have you heard enough to make a decision?”

“Of course they haven’t! They haven’t heard Bollo’s side yet!”

“What side is that? The side of dereliction of duty? I trusted your familiar with one of the most important nights of my life and he betrayed my trust!”

“He didn’t do it on purpose! Your _list_ is near impossible to read! Harrison requested it in any case, he loves Spider Dijon, what’s Bollo supposed to do? Just say no when he can’t read what half of—”

“It was perfectly legible!”

Naboo is about to tell her where to stick it when Dennis says, “This seems to have a simple solution. Why don’t you present us with the list so that we may judge for ourselves?”

“Yeah, sounds like this list is eer… evidence,” Tony Harrison adds.

Cruleficent and Naboo share a look.

“I gave it to you,” she says, innocently, even though a healthy dose of malignance burns deep in her eyes.

“I haven’t got it,” Naboo says. “Your spell didn’t bring it along.”

“Well, then, there is no telling where it is now,” she says with a dismissive wave.

“Yeah, there is; it’s back at mine, just where you wanted to leave it, because you know that I’m right! You left it back on purpose!"

“Never!” 

“Yeah, well, then, I’ll fetch it, shall I?” 

“Over my dead body! You’ll alter it!” 

“I’ll alter it? I don’t need to alter it! Anyway, just saying that you think I’m going to alter it makes it sound like you’re the one who wants to do some altering, help support your version of the case!” 

“You insult my honor—” 

“Can’t insult what don’t exist!” 

Cruleficent’s eyes flare. Her full lips purse as she glares at him, Naboo feels a thick anticipation steal over him, something is going to _happen_. 

She snaps her fingers and disappears. 

_Shit._

Naboo snaps his fingers and nothing happens. “She’s put a block up!” he shouts. “She’s unbelievable, she is!” 

The rest of the Shaman Council looks at him, nonplussed. 

“Wait here, you useless ballbags,” Naboo says to them. He starts sprinting off into the forest, running for the edge of Cruleficent’s magic. 

He’s got to get his hands on that list before she does. 


	14. Chapter 14

One of the things that Vince loves about Howard (and there are a lot of them) is how quickly he goes from zero to let’s-blow-up-the-flat. You might not guess it about Howard (he’s a dark horse, after all) but when it comes down to it, he’s the mad one between them, the one who’ll go over the edge if you blow on him too hard. 

He gets there in about three seconds. _We’re all going to die? Fuck it! Might as well blow up the flat!_

Genius, that’s what he is. Bloody insane.

He’s laid it out like this.

He’s going to make some sort of chemical cocktail, they’re going to lure all of the gremlins into one room _somehow_ , then he, Vince, and Gadget are going to _jump_ out of Howard’s window, book it down the alley, and hopefully escape fiery doom.

 _That’s_ Howard’s plan. 

A two story jump that Vince isn’t wild about making, a prayer that he doesn’t sprain an ankle at the bottom, and a further prayer that whatever Howard cooks up isn’t strong enough to blow up more than just a single room in a single flat. Then, of course, when Naboo gets home...

But that’s a later problem, a problem to deal with _when it happens_ ; got to make sure they get there first, don’t they?

Vince sort of agrees with the whole thing. He certainly hasn’t got anything better, anyway, and Howard is the one that does the plans, so...

He’s letting him sort the details.

Howard stands front of the blackboard, scrawling chemicals ( _Acetone peroxide, hydrazoic acid, methyl nitrate_ ) in his tight, precise handwriting, referring over to a chemistry textbook that he _just happened to have_ , and then sorting out the little bottles he’s withdrawn from Lester’s (apparently) bottomless chemical storehouse (bag). 

It’s not erotic. It’s really not. Vince knows that it isn’t. He’s still trying to stave off the tide of arousal, though. It should be easy (they’re in mortal peril) (both of them are a bit worse for wear at this point) but it’s not as simple as it sounds. 

The whole thing is... fuck, it’s like a fantasy brought to life; _Howard_ willing to risk years of organization, years of fucking cataloging a bloody cupboard, years of keeping everything neat, and nice, and fucking clean, for twenty seconds of explosive heat. 

Sure, it’s a last resort, and, yeah, it’s not like Howard would ever even think about it under normal circumstances, but still. It’s got Vince a bit bothered.

Then, of course, he’s gone all anal with the planning of the thing, and that’s... it’s working too. 

Plus, Howard has got a chalky handprint directly on the center of his bum that flashes white whenever he leans over the chemistry text he’s referring to, like a little sign post, a secret instruction (touch here) that is for Vince’s eyes only, and he keeps tapping the chalk against the blackboard, and making little hums of consideration, completely wrapped up in his thoughts (of chaos). 

He’s not paying Vince any mind at all (like how it used to be) and Vince keeps thinking about how nice it would be to _get him to pay attention_. 

Vince wants to let him know (the best way he knows how) just exactly how much he appreciates what Howard is doing, everything that Howard is. He wants to confirm (physically) that he feels just the same as Howard does. Even if Vince isn’t as good at saying it with words, he knows he’ll be excellent at saying it without them. 

Which brings him to…

The things Howard said.

He can’t have meant it.

He doesn’t know why it’s easier to believe that he doesn’t, but it is. It’s so much easier, even though (for as long as Vince can remember) he’s wanted someone (Howard) to feel like he was good enough. Now someone (again, Howard) has actually _told_ Vince that he is and Vince can’t really absorb it. It sits on the surface of his skin like a drop of water (it’ll roll away if he moves too fast) and he keeps looking at it, catching his own distorted reflection in the convex surface and thinking _not really_. 

Truth is, he doesn’t actually deserve it.

Truth is, he’d almost feel better if Howard _didn’t_ mean it.

Even though, and this is the fucking kicker, he’s also really pleased to think that he (does?) might.

Because, even if he doubts Howard’s sincerity, Vince knows how he, himself, feels, and his love is the ultimate weighted coin (might be double sided too), only ever one possibility for him, and it’s Howard.

So, yeah, if Howard actually did feel the same, well, it’d be pretty fucking genius.

Between the imminent danger, the cocktail of improbable sexual arousal, and the emotional turmoil that is somersaulting somewhere in his stomach, he’s got a lot to sort out (he’s really hoping he gets the time to do so).

A tap on his back breaks Vince out of his train of thought. He looks over his shoulder at Gadget and the bodmai has his hand out, looking for a piece of surgical tape. Vince tears one from the roll he’s holding and hands it to him. Gadget takes it and presses it against Vince’s skin where he can feel it tugging slightly. 

Gadget is taking care of the wounds on Vince’s back, dabbing them with antiseptic, plastering the little ones, using gauze pads and surgical tape on the big ones. It’s keeping them both out of Howard’s way while he thinks, this little (herculean) task.

The paracetamol he’s taken really aren’t touching the pain. Not a total surprise given the extent of the injuries he’s suffered. He’s got so many scrapes and cuts that he looks like he’s been put through a meat grinder. Not exactly his best look, if his pocket mirror isn’t fibbing at him. 

Gadget tapes the final bandage to his skin and then he surveys his handiwork with a nod. He walks around the front of Vince and Vince gives him a pat.

“Cheers.”

In between all the cataloging, chalking, and referencing, Howard fetched Vince out one of his old shirts so that Vince wouldn’t have to try and get himself back into the scraps he had been wearing.

It’s just a plain, black button down, nothing too objectionable, nothing special either, and definitely well old. Vince places it as being something Howard might have worn during college, back when he was trying for a little bit of edge, a time when he might have considered a button down that wasn’t white _edgy_.

Simpler times, those.

Vince stands and slips the shirt over his shoulders.

The fit of it is absurd. It’s like a tunic, the way it hangs off him. The sleeves are too long, too. He rolls them up a little so that they don’t completely cover his hands and tries to decide how many buttons to leave undone at the top. He usually goes for three, but three in this shirt leaves the thing in danger of slipping off him completely. He shrugs a little, to see if it actually will or not, and, as suspected, it rolls off his shoulder and puts his tit out. He does up another button, then tugs at the bottom of the shirt to smooth it down.

It’s not great, but it’s as good as it’ll ever be. At least it hasn’t got holes in it. At least it’s warm. At least it’s soft. 

(and it’s Howard’s)

He looks up just in time to see Howard sneaking a peek at him and then turning hastily away.

Vince doesn’t bother fighting the little smirk that teases up the corner of his mouth. Best look or not, seems like it might be working for him anyway.

He sits back on the bed and Gadget hops into his lap.

They are all ignoring the persistent noise outside Howard’s room, the noise that suggests that there might not be a flat to blow up if they leave it for long enough, but they can’t ignore it forever. There had been banging against the wall not that long ago, banging that sounded like a hammer, that sounded purposeful, certainly, that’s since stopped. Even without it, though, Vince can’t shake the feeling that their little safe haven won’t be safe that much longer. The little pocket of peace they’ve carved out for themselves is going to collapse. 

They have to be ready before it does.

Vince doesn’t want to rush him, but he’s also habitually impatient, so… “Going alright, Howard?” he asks.

Howard looks back at him. He’s got a streak of chalk smudged just under his eye and across the front of his cardigan now too. 

He’s fucking adorable.

“Yeah,” Howard says. “More or less.” 

Vince looks up at the board, “What’s potassium pomegranate?”

“Potassium permanganate,” Howard corrects. “Oxidizer. They use it in eczema cream too.”

Vince nods like he knows what Howard is talking about. “Does it blow up?”

“Not really, no,” Howard says. 

“What does?”

Howard waves a hand over the list of chemicals, “A lot of this does.”

“That’s good?” Vince asks.

“Yeah...” Howard says trailing off. He looks back at the board, “If we wanted to completely destroy the flat, we’d already be off to the races. It’s making something that we can escape, or time delay, or... something like that. That’s not so easy. Dying in a fireball probably isn’t that much better than getting torn apart.”

“Probably be quicker, at least,” Vince says, cheerfully.

Howard shoots him a look.

Vince rolls his eyes, “Alright, so? Don’t you have like... fuses or whatever?”

“Why on earth would I have fuses?”

“You had a blackboard. What did you have that for?”

“Planning,” Howard says as though it’s self-evident. 

“Well, didn’t you think to yourself that you ought to have some fuses just in case you needed to dynamite something? Seems like a bit of an oversight on your part, to be honest.”

Howard sighs heavily.

Vince smiles. He looks over at Howard’s window, the window they are meant to jump through, and chews his lip. “Hey, Howard?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we should maybe… make a rope? Or something?”

“Might not have time to climb down, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Right,” Vince says. He’s starting to feel a bit nervous.

“It’ll be fine,” Howard says. “Probably.” Howard looks over at the window too, “Possibly.” His face tightens up with concern, “Do you think this is mad?”

“What?”

“Blowing up the… the flat?”

Vince shrugs, “We don’t have a choice, right?”

Howard nods, “Yeah, guess not. Not really. I mean, we have to kill a lot of them, somehow.”

“Yeah,” Vince agrees. He strokes Gadget’s ears absently, “But what if…” he stops, feeling a little embarrassed.

“What if what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, go on. I’m stuck. Might as well say what’s on your mind.”

“Well, like, you know, how fizzy drinks explode sometimes, from the gas or whatever, building up inside if you drop them? What about something like that? It’d have to be a lot bigger, obviously. Or, you remember that time with the Mentos?”

Howard does remember, Vince sees it in his eyes.

He can never quite explain it, how it happens, why it happens, which of them starts it, or how they decide where it ends. It just starts, it just goes, with neither of them fully in control of it, neither of them fully understanding the words until after they’re said. Together, they build something.

_Paper pellet pipeline  
Blue winter sunshine  
Goes down ohsofine  
He is a minty  
The winty minty  
The Mentos minty  
Top comes off, fizzy hiss  
Top comes off, fizzy hiss  
Zamma Dhamet, drop it in  
Fizzy dizzy, uh-oh  
Fizzy Fitzy, uh-oh  
Don’t drop Mentos into Coke_

The crimp fades.

Vince smiles, “Made a right mess. Mr. Fitzgibbons went mental, thought he’d have us thrown out of school.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t best pleased, was he?”

“Not best pleased? He called you a pole-legged twat with shit for brains. Called me a gormless, witch-faced nancy bitch. He was properly cheesed-off.”

“Floor was sticky for weeks,” Howard recalls absently. 

The sound of rubber-soled shoes pulling on sticky, dried soda comes to Vince. He sees the poster of Marie Curie hanging over his left shoulder. He remembers a much younger Howard with shifty, foxy eyes that darted from the floor over to Vince every time the sound tore through the silence of the classroom, secret amusement burning beneath the layer of nerves.

Mr. Fitzgibbons used to glare at them both every time he heard that singular tear. 

The old twat had deserved it. 

Howard’s Coke, Vince’s Mentos, the whole thing more or less an accident. Or, perhaps, rather, a coincidence. Vince, at least, had known what he was doing when he gently angled the tip of the bottle toward Fitzgibbons, had hoped that Howard would take him up on it when he offered him one of his mints. Even then, they’d had something, a shared brainspace wherein they each understood one another without speaking.

Howard had taken the Mento from the sleeve with slightly shaking fingers, but he hadn’t missed, when he dropped it. Vince hadn’t missed either, when he’d tilted the bottle. 

They’d sprayed Fitzgibbons directly in the face and made themselves temporary heroes.

Howard smiles, but his smile slowly fades, “Yeah, but we can’t just get them wet with Coke.”

Vince deflates. “No, right.”

“But...” Howard says, his eyes going faraway (he’s going deep into thought again), “but maybe you’re onto something.” He spins on his heel, crouches near Lester’s bag and pulls out a large container that looks like the sort of thing that holds fuel for barbeques. “Liquid nitrogen,” Howard mumbles. 

He goes back to the blackboard, starts sketching. There is an outer shell and an inner shell, “You’d need another liquid. Normally, you’d use water, but that’s out in this case,” Howard says. He draws lines in the gap between the outer container and the smaller one inside. “There’s no saying that it couldn’t work. But we’d need shrapnel.” He taps the chalk to make little dots in between the two containers, “I mean, you put in something light, but sharp and maybe... they’d have to be very close up…” Howard shakes his head, “And there would be no guarantees; it might not do for all of them...” he concludes. He studies what he’s drawn, meditates over it for a while. “But most of them, maybe. It’s not… it’s not impossible. And there wouldn’t be any fire, which is probably… a bit of a plus.”

“Alright,” Vince says. He, too, likes the sound of no fire. “So, what do we need?”

“An outdoor bin. A large amount of liquid that isn’t water, and all of them, very close to all of that,” Howard says, a little bitterly. He combs his hand through his hair, “So, yeah, I suppose this is a nonstarter too.”

Vince thinks, “Well, have you checked Lester’s bag?”

Howard laughs, “For what?”

“The bin.”

Howard eyes the bag dubiously. “Are you mad?” he asks.

The bag is roughly the size of the kind of handbag you’d see some blonde twiglet of a woman carrying a tiny dog in, but that sort of physical limitation hasn’t stopped it so far. It’s disgorged more than its fair share of glassware, chemicals, _and_ the fucking container of liquid nitrogen which, yeah, is well-larger than the bag itself, so Vince reckons it’s worth a shot.

He shrugs, “Can’t hurt to check.”

Howard sighs. Clearly just to humor him, he goes to the bag again and opens it. He looks down, moves a couple of things within it. “Huh,” he says.

“Has he got one?”

“Yeah,” Howard says. “He has… I…”

“Well, get it out, then.”

“Yeah… yeah, right.”

In Vince’s experience, when these sort of things happen, it’s better not to question them, best to just accept the windfall and be happy about it, so he is. And he doesn’t question the liters of juice they find inside either, or the bags of glass and nails, or the funnel. 

It’s all just there. Doesn’t matter how. Doesn’t matter why. 

Good enough.

“Alright,” Vince says, once they have their supplies gathered, “So now we need something to draw them in?”

“Yes.” 

“Do we have any more sweets?”

Howard shakes his head, “Not enough. No, we’d need something else.” 

They ponder this.

The thing is that they don’t know a whole hell of a lot about their quarry, but Vince has been operating under the assumption that the gremlins are basically bodmai on steroids. He knows more about Gadget than he does the gremlins. As far as he can tell, Gadget likes three things.

The first is sweets. They have a few things left that they could possibly use as bait, but they need more than what they’ve got if they’re going to group all the gremlins together like they would need to for their plan to work.

The second thing Gadget likes are cuddles, but Vince goes out on a limb and thinks that cuddles are probably not something a gremlin is likely to want, particularly when they seem far more inclined to rip people apart than settle in for a nice hug.

The third thing that he knows Gadget likes is music. The murdered radio indicates that the gremlins might not fully share his enthusiasm for it, but the pounding on the keys of the piano downstairs that has been going ad nauseum for the past hour suggests otherwise.

Vince’s eyes slide over to Howard’s record player.

Howard is obsessed with that record player. It’s been in his bedroom since they were kids. He’s dragged it from house, to flat, to flat, to... wherever he’s gone, and it’s always occupied the same place of honor. He calls the thing _she_ like it’s a person, or The Victrola, like it’s the only one of its kind in existence. Howard polishes her cabinet every week with mineral oil and beeswax. He’s replaced her turntable motor twice in Vince’s memory. He won’t let Vince anywhere near the dials because _her levels are balanced as a gymnast_.

He keeps all his weird, not-to-be-played records in the cabinet, all of the obscure ones that aren’t even meant to be breathed on, the ones that he saves up his wages for months to buy, the ones that get delivered by blokes in hazmat suits.

Vince has harbored jealousies over that record player, has always been pretty sure that, if Howard had to pick just one of them to save in a fire, he’d have to think about it for a long while, long enough that it would probably be obvious that ( _if_ he eventually picked Vince) it would only be because he was lighter and easier to carry.

Vince looks away from _The Victrola_ as quick as he can, but Howard has seen him looking.

He looks at her too. “My Nan gave me that record player,” he says quietly.

Vince feels a sympathetic stab of loss. Howard has never mentioned that before. He doesn’t mention his family often at all, even though he’s got plenty of them. The Christmas cards come in every year from his parents, from Moons all over the country. Howard usually bins them immediately after opening them.

Vince hasn’t got any idea of what that’s like (so much familial affection you can just chuck it away), but he knows enough about _not_ having someone that you wish you did. “We don’t have to.”

Howard goes to her and caresses her body. 

“We do,” Howard tells him. “We haven’t got any other choice.”

Howard accepts Vince’s hand on his shoulder, lays his own hand over it. “I thought I’d have her forever. I promised Nan that I’d always take good care of her,” he says with a sniffle.

Vince doesn’t say anything. He lets Howard have his moment.

Howard starts removing the records from her cabinet.

“Want a hand?” Vince asks.

Howard shakes his head. “No, I’ll do it. She’s my record player,” he says with the gravity of young Travis Coates picking up a shotgun and heading toward the doghouse.

Vince nods, “Have you got any extension cords?” he asks.

“Yeah, shelf 16E.”

Somberly, Vince starts getting them out.

Once she’s been cleared, Howard, Vince and Gadget outfit the Victrola with as much deadly hardware as possible. They fill the bin with liter after liter of juice. Gadget gets wrapped up in the extension cord while he’s trying to help Vince sort it out, but Vince extricates him. The two of them plug in the Victrola together.

When it’s done, they all survey their handiwork.

Howard picks up the insulated container of liquid nitrogen.

“Right,” he says. He looks at Vince, “So, what we need to do is pour this into one of the empty juice bottles, but don’t cap it. Keep the cap off until the last possible second. We wheel the whole bit out with the music on. Hopefully, they don’t just rip us to shreds on sight. We’ll get everything into the living room, let them gather up, then you tighten the cap, toss the bottle in, I’ll toss in the shrapnel, and we run like hell back in here. Hopefully, the thing goes off, explodes, and kills the bastards.”

“Okay,” Vince says with a nod. “So, what are we going to play?”

“I was thinking some Lester Young. Hit them with the original cool,” Howard says, lowering a slow chop through the air.

“Jazz?” Vince asks. He pulls a sour face and looks dubiously at the record Howard has already retrieved from its crate. A cartoon sax player is positioned in front of a line drawing of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, “Come on, Howard. You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious, little man. The Victrola isn’t going out playing anything but the J A double Z.”

Vince puts his hands on his hips, “Yeah, but we want them to get close, don’t we?”

“Yes!”

“Well, the J A double Z isn’t exactly a draw, is it?”

“Of course it is!”

Vince is ready to keep arguing but then he hears a noise. It sounds like the cracking of an eggshell, like something sliding to the floor just behind him. He turns.

_Ready or not, here we come!_

He realizes he’s been hearing the scraping at the wall for the better part of the past hour, but it had sounded so fruitless. Like nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.

The plaster of Howard’s wall is tinking down on the floor. A crack is audibly, visibly, forming. The tip of a pickaxe punches through the wall.

“Oh,” Howard says. He hastily starts uncapping the liquid nitrogen to get it poured into the juice bottle, but he leaves off as the first of the gremlins burst into his room. Somehow, the damn thing has acquired a miner’s safety hat with a lamp on it. A team of five, similarly outfitted, follow it like a swarm of ants.

Vince steps forward. Gadget squeaks and Vince looks down to see the bodmai toss a tiny bottle of some chemical up at him. Vince catches it and throws it at the feet of the lead gremlin. It shatters and the gremlin screams as whatever was in the bottle splashes up and onto its skin. The spray hits a pair of the others. They bat at their smoking wounds while even more green bodies push past them and into the room.

“Howard!” Vince shouts, “Do it!”

“But...”

There isn’t any time to think, they need to act. Now. “ _Do it!_ ”

Howard slaps the record he’s holding down on the deck, flips the switch, lowers the needle. A staid piano begins playing an unhurried march. Saxophone soon layers over it. Vince gags.

The gremlins halt. They look in confusion toward the Victrola. More of them shuffle forward. 

Suddenly, one of them rips into the room in a mad dash. He’s got sunglasses, a tiny black blazer, and a spliff hanging out of his mouth. He boogies up to the Victrola, snapping his fingers and grooving. “Oh yeah,” he hisses. 

Howard shoots Vince a victorious look that lasts all of two seconds.

The rest of the gremlins fall on the jazz gremlin. It screams horribly as it gets ripped apart. Howard’s eyes trace its sunglasses as they arch up into the air and fall with a crunch on the ground an inch from his foot. He giggles uneasily.

Well, they’ve tried it Howard’s way, now it’s time for Vince’s.

Vince picks up the needle and the jazz stalls. He turns toward Gadget, “Quick!” he yells, and Gadget dives into Howard’s cupboard and emerges with a record a split second later. He tosses the record toward Vince, his whole body put into the throw, so that the bodmai nearly stumbles over.

The words _British Steel_ are briefly illuminated in the slatted streetlight that comes through Howard’s blinds before Vince slams it down. Vince turns the volume all the way up. Judas Priest screams into the flat, the shredding guitar of _Rapid Fire_ barreling through Howard’s room like a herd of wildebeest.

The gremlins pause again. One of them starts banging its head. Like a flock of swallows or a crowd of lemmings, the others follow suit. Gadget throws the rest of their sweets out into the crowd and the gremlins start squabbling over them. A mosh pit forms at the base of the Victrola.

They are blessedly ignoring Howard, Gadget, and himself.

More of them are crowding into the room. The hole in the plaster has widened into a gap the width of the door, and it keeps widening as the gremlins continue to tear at it. They jostle and fight with one another to get close to the music, half-dancing, half just fucking everything up that they can lay hands on.

Howard looks on, dismayed and aghast for a moment, as his records get spilled out of their crates, as his books get pulled off their shelves, as his journals on his desk get torn into and ripped to confetti. Vince yells his name and Howard snaps out of it. “Hurry,” Vince shouts.

Howard grabs the container of liquid nitrogen, uncaps it and then spins in a circle. “The funnel,” he says. He turns, and, as he turns, one of the gremlins climbs up onto the shelf directly behind him. Vince sees the moment Howard’s head lines up perfectly with the head of the gremlin (it looks like Howard has sprouted a pair of reversed bat ears), the moment just before everything goes wrong (again). 

Howard startles, the container of liquid nitrogen (smoking gently) sloshes and then Howard heaves it back and he tosses the hyper-chilled liquid at the gremlin’s sneering face. He nails it in the chest, hits another six or seven that stand beneath it, and they freeze still as statues, which is all to the good.

Bad news, though, is that their bomb is a bust.

Gadget runs up to Vince and Vince scoops him up off the floor. Howard and Vince share a look. The gremlins are getting more violent. They’re tearing at Howard’s bedsheets, they’re ripping down his curtains. It’s only a matter of time before they turn their attention _elsewhere._

The world depressurizes with a sudden, sucking pop. It’s a feeling like ten flirtinis downed in a millisecond, and then it’s gone. Vince thinks he’s imagined it, it’s there and gone so fast, but he sees the gremlins shaking their heads. Next to him, Howard sways on his feet.

“Where is it?” a cold, female voice demands.

 _Oh, Christ_.

That’s all Vince can think as _her_ voice cuts through his brain like a white-hot knife incinerating butter on the spot. He has no idea how he can hear her over the sound of _Metal Gods_ , but he can. Almost like her voice is piped directly into his head. There is a clap of sound and the electricity flares. Howard’s desk lamp burns bright as a lightning strike. The gremlins screech, Gadget burrows into his chest, hides his face, and Vince covers his head with his hand. 

Vince thinks that they’re about to lose the electrical again, but they don’t. Everything just intensifies until something snaps. The music dies. A whiff of smoke is climbing out of the back of the Victrola. It’s the least of their problems, really, but Vince still bares his teeth in a sympathetic grimace.

Then, _her_ voice again.

“Girl! Where are you?”

The queasy sense of being hunted by something worse than gremlins comes over him, but, faster than he can actually gather the scraps of thought into a whole, he realizes that she is their only hope. The bomb isn’t going to happen, but her, her magic, he has no doubt, can save them.

“Who the hell?” Howard asks, and, oh, he has no idea what he’s in for, but Vince hasn’t got the time to explain it to him.

He shifts Gadget up, grabs the edge of the juice-filled bin and then pulls it over. Juice spills over the floor in a tidal wave and gremlins get washed out of their path like they’ve been hit with a riot hose. Vince grabs Howard’s arm and pulls him, “Come on!”

Howard stumbles as Vince yanks him into motion. The gremlins start moving too. It’s like a hive of hibernating bees stirring awake in the spring thaw. They quiver and shuffle, then, _flash, snap_ , they’ve reanimated. Luckily, the creatures seem hell-bent on destroying Howard’s room before they do anything else. 

They throw his lamp at the wall to smash it, one of them pulls at the veneer on his desk and peels a wide swath of it free before it takes a bite out of it. Howard’s neat, precise little world is getting ripped apart, and, as much as Vince has fantasized about dumping over a crate or two of records, he’s never wanted to completely wreck anything. Watching it fills him with a sort of semi-queasy disgust. He prays that Howard just closes his eyes and doesn’t look.

He pulls Howard along behind him, aiming kicks at gremlins when they seem appropriate, hoping that each of them counts. They duck through the hole in the wall, both he and Howard showered with white plaster dust, and sprint down the hall.

Their living room is a futuristic hellscape so wrecked that not even the most extreme anarchist would be willing to claim it as their handiwork. He can’t even attempt to properly assess the damage. There’s no point to trying. If it was there, it’s safe to assume it’s been broken, ripped, eaten, smashed, shredded, or otherwise. It’s just an empire of destruction.

In the middle of the room is _the woman_.

Her back is turned to them, a long line of dark buttons climbs her back, winks out against the mahogany fabric of her dress. She is like she was before. She dominates the scene, subjugates it, forces it to its knees and makes it beg. She is an unassailable, ageless nightmare.

And that’s just from the _back_. She turns slowly and, again, too fast to actually think the thought, Vince shifts Gadget behind himself. Doesn’t rightly know, but he feels the bodmai is best not seen.

Her _eyes!_

She spears Vince with her gaze, like she did in the shop. She points at him, “You! Where is it?”

Vince has no idea what she wants or what she’s looking for. He (honest to fucking god) wishes he did. He shakes his head, “What?”

“The—” she begins. Her head glacially tilts to the side, her gaze crawls like encroaching ice toward the hall.

A sound like ten-thousand rats.

It’s not. It’s only about a hundred or so gremlins. One exits Howard’s room. She pins it with her stare, but the creature is unaffected. It cackles.

“A pet,” she hisses disgustedly. She waves a desultory hand toward it and it incinerates from the inside out (like a jack ‘o lantern filled with kerosene). The shriek it makes is cut off mid-rise. Just a quick _eee_ of pain or fear, no time for the _k_ that would surely have turned it into a proper _eeek!_

A cloud of smoky ash is all that’s left of the gremlin.

Vince feels his eyes go wide.

Naboo does magic. All the time. He’s done plenty in front of Vince and Howard before.

But he’s never done anything _like that_.

As soon as the gremlin is gone, twenty more appear.

“Pets,” the witch corrects with vitriol.

They rush past Howard and Vince en masse, ignoring them both completely. They are pointed at the witch like an arrow. It’s like watching a cavalry charge. The Charge of the Light Brigade. Even in their numbers, they are doomed. Vince can see it in the way she stands.

She stands like she’s something else. Like she’s the rocky shore of Cornwall, like they are only waves that will break to bits on her before they slide limply away, like ten million of them could bash into her without eroding a single inch of her.

Vince almost wants to tell them to stop.

He doesn’t.

But the impulse is there.

The first one to leap at her turns tan and granular, bursts on the floor as nothing more than wet sand. The next goes clear, is turned to hollow glass then shatters like a soap bubble the moment it comes in contact with the hem of her dress. The next twenty dissolve into bubbling pink goop that smells like bubble bath. 

Sheets of them fall under her hand. She twists her fingers and a score of them just burst, green blood spatters, bits of bodies spray (like someone has put a mass of them into a blender and neglected to put the lid on before blitzing them), an ear flies up and hits Howard on the cheek. 

He, by the by, watches all of this with such frank, undisguised horror that Vince would like to gather him up and hide his face away like he’d done for Gadget when the lights flared up, but, of course, he can’t.

He doesn’t see Slash. He watches the masses, waits to hear a call for retreat. Something, anything, that would indicate his presence. He doesn’t come.

Probably wise on his part. _She_ eliminates every single one of them. She looks bored doing it. When she’s done, she’s not even winded.

She pulls down the sleeve of her gown, inspects a fleck of goop with disapproval then magics it gone.

“Dias ex Mochaccino,” Vince whispers to Howard.

Howard doesn’t say a word.

“Where is it?” she asks again.

“What?” Vince asks.

“My _list_.”

Vince still has no fucking clue what she’s on about. “Need to check it twice, do you?” he asks hysterically. He knows it’s not the time to lip off, but he can’t help himself. He’s got more fear in his blood than sense, because, she did destroy all the gremlins in the flat, but there is no telling if there are more down in the shop or not. 

At least one _is_ , or he’s somewhere else, biding his time. Until he’s gone, it isn’t over.

“I have no time for this insolence! You saw what I did to your creatures, what do you suppose would stop me from doing the same to you?”

“Alright! Just, I don’t know what—"

“My list!” she insists again, her temper flaring. Howard takes a step back. 

Vince would like to take a step back too, but he doesn’t.

Her hands clench. She advances toward them, “You would be best served by complying with my demands, girl! Your master is not here to protect you, nor could he do so in any case. I will—”

She doesn’t get to say what she’ll do. 

Naboo appears in a purple flash. He’s panting, like he’s just come off a run. He looks straight at the witch, “What’s going on here? Thought you’d get the drop, did you?” 

The woman turns on him, “It isn’t my fault that your inferior magic—"

“What’ve you done to my _flat_?” he demands, looking about him (the green and pink pools of slime) (the broken television) (the sofa that’s been reduced to springs and batting). He’s incandescent with anger. At least for Naboo. Sounds like he’s shaking down someone who stole his trainers anyway.

“You deserve _worse_!” she screams. “I will destroy you and all of your servants. I will pursue you to the ends of this world and all others, I will—”

“Oh, shut up!” Naboo says. “I’ve had it up to here with all this! You’re getting a counterclaim filed against you, you are!”

“Counterclaim!?” she spits. Again, Vince can feel power radiating off her like static. There is a pull toward her that he can feel sucking him in like a drain. She’s repellant and fascinating all at once. She takes a step toward Naboo, “You wouldn’t dare cross me you little upstart!”

Naboo puts his hands on his hips, cranes his neck, looks right up in her face as he says, “Fuck off!”

Her mouth works, empty of words for a moment, then she draws herself up to her full height (an imposing, climb; she’s got a few inches on Howard). “Insolent, insufferable, unthinking, selfish...”

Naboo is unfazed. “Oh, that really hurts my feelings,” he says with so much sarcasm that it razors bone deep, “Those all the bad adjectives you got?”

She stares down at him, whites of her eyes showing full around. She is plainly enraged, and Naboo is just taking it, not a quiver to him, though she is physically, mentally, terrifying. Violence is about to take place.

Then the woman closes the distance between them (Vince expects to hear the whipcrack of a slap) (but it doesn’t come). What comes is a moan and a slurp and… oh god. She’s snogging Naboo. Naboo responds by wrapping his arms around her shoulders and she lifts him off the floor, not breaking contact between them. She bears him backward toward the wall and shoves him up against it.

Howard looks away.

Vince feels his face doing some sort of gymnastics, as he tries to get himself to look away too, but, apparently, he _can’t_. It’s like watching a crocodile eat a motorbike. It’s horrible but utterly fascinating. Vince’s respect for Naboo has shot up, anyway. Anyone who could even consider getting off with _that_ is a fucking lunatic, has bigger balls than a goddamn kangaroo.

Howard clears his throat. Loudly. And a second time. He coughs like he’s got the tuberculosis. That does it.

The frenetic snogging stops. The witch slides Naboo to the floor. Her hands remain possessively on his chest. He tugs down his kurta, adjusts his turban. “Right,” he says. 

“I’m still suing your familiar,” the woman says. She withdraws her hands and raises her head haughtily.

“Right,” Naboo repeats. He looks over at Vince, “Did you pick up that paper from the shop?”

Vince shakes his head, still a bit stunned (by, you know, _everything_ ), still a bit confused (he’s not sure what everyone is going on about with papers and lists and whatnot), definitely wishing that he’d used the distraction to come up with a better hiding place for Gadget than simply behind his back (he’s starting to get a little heavy back there) and just, overall, having a bit of a shocker. 

“Wait, the list that was on the floor in the shop?” Howard asks and then Vince remembers, and, _of course_ , but he didn’t pick it up. He doesn’t know how Howard even knows about it, but then he realizes how he must know. By no means would Howard ever tolerate a bit of litter in the middle of the shop floor.

“Yeah,” Naboo says, “You got it?”

“I... uh... I think I do,” Howard says. He might be having a crisis of his own. Possibly, he, like Vince, is waiting for Slash to rush back up into the bathroom and put them right back into the boiling pot they’ve just escaped, possibly he’s just dazed by, well, again _everything_ , which is a pretty reasonable reaction all told. Either way, he just stands there, like he can’t put two and two together for the life of him. 

Naboo stares at him, “Well, fetch it out!”

“Sure, yes, sure. I’ll just pop into my room and...” Howard must catch Naboo’s expression, which sits in polar opposition to amused. Howard winces out half a smile, “I’ll be right back.” He runs off. 

Vince stands awkwardly, Gadget still held behind his back, trying not to look at Naboo or the witch, who, coincidentally, only seem to have eyes for each other anyway. They look like circling alley cats who can’t decide if they want to have a go at one another with claws drawn or if they want to try for a brood of kittens.

He has a horrible suspicion that they might do both. He just hopes they do it somewhere well away from him. Like Xooberon, maybe.

Howard runs back out of his room, “Yes, here it is. I’ve got it,” he says. He holds it out. Naboo and the witch both reach for it at the same time. There is a bit of a slap-fight before Naboo’s fingers close around the scrap and yank it from Howard’s hand. 

“There, no altering it now, is there?” Naboo says with a victorious smirk.

She sneers at him.

The eye contact lasts a little _too_ long before Naboo breaks it. He looks around the flat again (at dented pans, empty crisp packets that billow like tumbleweeds, piles of glass ground down to fine glitter, the Christmas tree that has somehow been completely stripped of needles). “Help me clear this up?” he asks his nemesis/love interest.

She nods, once.

Vince hopes for floating crockery and brooms, he hopes for watching everything dance back into place like a Disney film. What he gets is a synchronized set of words and gestures and then the flat looks completely normal. Like nothing ever happened.

Naboo rolls his shoulders as he looks over the flat as though checking for any irregularities. The witch, if she has any thoughts whatsoever about how it looked when she arrived, declines to voice them. She doesn’t mention the hundred or so _pets_ that she destroyed with a wave of her hand either. Thank Christ.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” Naboo says. “Don’t let the place get mucked up again.”

“Right-o,” Howard says, saluting with his bandaged hand.

Naboo’s eyes narrow. He looks toward Vince. Vince, who has held his arms behind his back for the past ten minutes, Vince, who is very obviously wearing one of Howard’s shirts, Vince, who is cut, and scraped, and shredded to bits, and definitely not looking right at all.

“What happened to you?” Naboo asks.

Vince gives himself a once-over, as though only just being made aware that he is a fucking wreck, “Oh...” _ain’t that funny?_

Naboo’s face starts going suspicious.

Howard intercedes. “Crazy story, that—” he says, just about the same time frantic pounding starts from inside their oven.

There is a barely muffled shout of, “Howard!” that both Vince and Howard pretend not to hear. 

Naboo pinches the bridge of his nose. He says a word and waves a hand toward them both. Vince’s shredded pajamas instantly stitch together. His skin feels itchy and then his pain evaporates. He feels… alright. Tired, but normal.

Howard peels back the bandage on his hand. His wound has been healed.

“Cheers, Naboo,” they both say, quietly.

Naboo shakes his head, “When I get back, we’re having a chat, yeah?”

“Yes, Naboo,” they chorus like ashamed school children.

Naboo’s eyebrow raises just a hair (they are fucking _in for it_ when he gets home) then he reaches for the witch’s hand and, together, they disappear.

As soon as they’re gone, Howard rushes to the oven. He opens the door and Lester rolls out onto the floor. The old man sputters a few lines of grateful scat and Howard helps him to his feet.

“Zippity do wop, I thought I was a goner!”

“Me too, Lester!” Howard says, patting ash off him. “My god, how did you ever survive?”

“Do you know there are Tibetan nuns who can control their own body temperature through meditation?”

Vince rolls his eyes. More like Naboo and the witch magicked him back to life. In any case, “Howard, this isn’t the time to let Lester go on a gab,” Vince says. He shifts Gadget back around his front, “Here, take Gadget. I’m going down to the shop.”

Howard looks at him questioningly. Vince sighs, “Slash, Howard. Where the fuck is Slash?”

Howard suddenly pales. “He wasn’t—”

“No. Least, I didn’t see him. Guard the tub, the sinks.”

“You think he could—”

“Of course I think he could. He did once already, didn’t he?”

“Okay, yeah, but, should you really go by yourself?”

“I don’t have a choice. I need you up here, alright? Chrissakes, don’t let him get wet.”

Howard nods, slowly. Vince goes up on tip-toe and gives him a quick kiss on the lips. Lester seems to be listening in on them extra keenly all the sudden. 

Vince turns to him, “Yeah, I kissed him. Yeah, we’re together. Alright?”

“I didn’t say nothin’,” Lester says. He might smile a little before he punches at Howard’s shoulder. Misses it and pegs him on the chin, of course, but Howard doesn’t look like he minds.

He might grin in response, like he’s actually happy to get ribbed by a mate for a change.

_Was it really that easy the whole time?_

God, he’s shit at this.

“I’ll keep Howard out of trouble,” Lester says.

Vince doubts very much that that’s true. “Thanks,” he says, anyway.

Gadget trills and Vince looks at him. He wiggles in Howard’s arms, points at something on the counter. Howard sees it first. 

“Here,” Howard says. He hands Vince a can of hairspray, fishes the zippo out of its regular place in the kitchen drawer. “Incinerate the prick.”

Vince smiles.

Alone, he goes to settle a score.

As he walks down the stairs, he doesn’t give Howard a final glance. He needs every inch of his focus on the task ahead, and a final glance has a way of becoming a _final_ glance when you start thinking about glances like they’re the last ones you’re ever going to have. He’s going to see Howard again in ten minutes. 

They’re going to laugh about all of this for years to come.

Can’t happen any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reason number three for the fic: The totally Gremlins canonical Jazz Gremlin!
> 
> Normally I have more to add about things like this, but in this case, I think it's self-explanatory.


	15. Chapter 15

The shop has been restored, thankfully, to its former glory. The radio is back up on the shelf, the blue robot is back on his perch too. Even the old fairy lights are back up by the stairs. Nothing is broken, it all looks just as it did, earlier that morning (yesterday morning?) when Naboo and the witch disappeared for the first time. It’s surreal to walk back into it and have it look like nothing has happened to it when, Vince knows, so very much _has_.

The lights are on, too. That’s good. They glow, warm and easy, soothing. They’re lying, of course. Vince can feel silent menace. He can feel (in the air) that something is waiting (Slash).

What he wants, no doubt, is to get to some water. He wants to make himself some more friends. Vince can’t let that happen.

Vince stands at the bottom of the stairs. What he expects is another, tense, quiet search around the shop. He expects to have to stalk Slash. What he doesn’t expect is a jelly-shoe to the face.

Guess which one he gets, though.

The yellow jelly whaps him right above his eye, smacks down on the floor with a loud slap. The other shoe follows and smacks him in the chest. Slash screams vengefully at him from the hall. He’s poised near the shoes, right near a pair of black, patent stilettos that Vince has a sneaking suspicion he will regret having stocked in a couple of seconds.

This time, he’s dead on the money.

Slash (who, by the by, looks well cool at this point) (hair spiked in a narrow fence of white) (black leather jacket studded with safety pins) (Vince can’t help the spike of admiration he feels for the gremlin’s makeover) (he’s half tempted to ask him if he wants some bondage trousers to complete the look) picks up a stiletto and whips it end over end. It flies straight at Vince’s shin and the heel connects. “Fuck, that hurt, you jerkoff!” Vince growls. 

Slash grins, his pointy yellow teeth a mess of rotting needles. He picks up the other stiletto and runs at Vince with it, holding the shoe by the toe, pointing the heel out like the tip of a lance. He moves in a zigging, zagging series of cutbacks, like a professional footballer. Vince cocks the hairspray, readies the zippo. He has to anticipate how he will move _just right_.

Vince sprays flame at where he hopes Slash will be, but at the last second the gremlin pivots. Flame scorches the rug, the red pattern goes black and charred. Slash skitters back before he throws the second stiletto at Vince’s ankles. Vince hops up and it misses him, but Slash uses the momentary distraction to dart for the stairs. 

Vince shoots another a gout of flame an inch in front of Slash’s face, which halts him in his tracks. In his haste to escape the inferno right in front of his eyes, he slips. He has to crabwalk backward as Vince pulls the flame toward him. Flame licks his toe. Vince nearly has him.

Then, Slash jackknifes himself up like a break dancer, pushes off his palms and pops to his feet. He leaps straight up and catches himself on the birdcage that hangs above the clothing rack. Vince tracks him with the flaming hairspray, cuts it just in time to avoid burning any of the jumpers. Slash swings back and forth on the birdcage (the garland around the bottom sparkles like a disco ball) and builds momentum. Vince takes aim again, but the gremlin launches himself into the village set up in the shop window before Vince can pull the trigger.

Cotton snow gets caught on his claws as he runs through the miniature winter scene. The little house lights illuminate him from below like he’s the monster out of a _Godzilla_ film. Vince strides after him, unleashing another gout of flame. The cotton catches, burns bright and hot for a second, then peters out. Pale grey ash floats up into the air.

As he runs, Slash picks up one of the buildings (the blacksmith’s) and whips it back at him. It clips the edge of Vince’s hand, scraping the skin raw. He drops the zippo. The blacksmith’s shop smashes on the floor. The zippo slides away. Slash dives for it and Vince dives for it, but the gremlin is too quick. He snatches it up with a cackle. He runs for the shop counter and ducks behind it.

Slash isn’t stupid. He’s seen the two-part equation of a homemade flamethrower. He’s got part one already in his hand. Part two...

Vince dashes headlong to cut off the end of the counter, runs as quick as he can to stop the gremlin from getting to his stash of hair product underneath. He slides around the side of the counter just in time to see Slash uncap the hairspray. He points it at him (fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck). Slash flicks the zippo, Vince throws himself backward just as Slash pushes down the top and sprays himself in the face. 

He’s blinded. He flings the zippo away, drops the can of hairspray. Vince changes course again, his boots slide on the floor, his ankles protest against yet another change of direction as he charges forward. 

Slash jumps past him, a blind leap, and Vince dives after him (vaulting desperately through the air), his arms fully outstretched (he briefly looks like Superman) (except he can’t fly). Slash lands and hits the ground running.

Vince keeps his eyes on the pumping legs of his target. He can’t fail now (he really can’t). 

He abandons any hope of protecting himself against the impact of the floor as he falls. He hits the floor with a splat and an _oof_ of expelled air. His hands reach...

It’s slow and fast, altogether. Slow, because he sees his fingers closing, fast because he sees Slash’s ankle sliding forward. He thinks he’s missed, but then there is a leg in his hand and Slash falls forward. His chin hits the floor with a crack. 

Vince yanks him backward, Slash claws for purchase on the ground, a chip of wood flakes up from the floor. He thrashes, tries to turn himself around. Vince struggles to get him pinned. 

Vince crawls forward to get more leverage over him and presses his forearm onto the gremlin’s back, leans onto him and just barely manages to keep him down. The gremlin twists. He looks up at Vince with enraged, yellow snake eyes, but the fight gradually goes out of him. He sags against the floor.

Vince knows that he should end it, that he should kill him.

The thing is, though, that, like this, when it’s just him, and Slash, and there isn’t any peril to himself, when he’s finally got the upper hand completely… he can’t make himself do it.

He never could.

Jahooli could never understand that, either. How he could catch a tapir or whatever and just be _unable_ to kill it. Defenseless, delicious, ripe for the taking, _just do it, it’s dinner time_ , but it always seemed such a shame to kill something like that.

That’s how Slash is now. He’s under Vince’s control, incapable of harming anyone.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Vince says. He’s going to cry, he realizes, over this. He tries to hold on to the anger he felt before, when the shelf was crushing him, when Howard and Gadget were being threatened, when they were all hopeless and despairing in Howard’s room. He tries to work himself up to the cold rage that he needs to do what he knows he should. No matter how he tries to stoke it, it refuses to flare.

“Why’d you have to do this?” Vince asks him. “We could have been mates, you know.”

“Friends,” Slash rasps. He sounds like he’s barely able to draw breath, like Vince is slowly crushing him to death. Vince can’t help it. He eases off him, just slightly.

“Yeah. Could have been,” Vince says. “I liked you,” he continues. “When you were a bodmai, I thought maybe… Well, Gadget lives with someone else, yeah? But I thought maybe, you could be mine. I’d have taken good care of you.”

The gremlin’s face gentles. “Friends,” he repeats.

Vince doesn’t realize that he’s done it, but he further relaxes his hold on Slash. “I like what you’ve done with your hair,” Vince says. “Lot you can do with hair like yours. I’d have helped you style it up.”

Slash takes this in. They have a moment, perhaps each imagining what might have been.

Only, it never could be.

Slash corkscrews in Vince’s grip, rakes his claws on Vince’s wrist. Vince releases him reflexively (he hears Jahooli tsking). Slash is up and bolting for the stairs in an instant, cackling the whole while.

Vince pushes himself up, swearing under his breath, and it feels like it did that last time, like Slash is going to beat him upstairs, like he’s going to get back to the bathtub and clone himself. Slash, at any rate flies up the stairs, but Vince is just behind him. “Howard!” he shouts, “He’s coming!”

Slash uses the bannister to swing from, propels himself into the middle of the living room floor. He looks back at Vince and the look in his eyes is unmistakable. It’s loathing, and hate, and gleeful malignance. There isn’t a heart in his body that’s more than just a fist of muscle for pumping blood. _Fuck you and whatever it is that made you too stupid to kill me when you had a chance_ , that looks says.

Story of Vince’s life, that. Give people a chance and sometimes they pay you back with kindness. Sometimes, they pay you back with a fist to the face. Always a gamble, giving people a chance. Usually it’s worth it.

In retrospect, though, he probably should have known better on this one.

Vince hoists himself into the flat. He doesn’t see Howard or Lester anywhere and for a moment, he panics, because he definitely needs someone to keep Slash from getting to the sink.

Howard yells, “Now, Lester!” and Vince sees him and Lester both standing near the windows, not near the sink or the bathroom at all. He thinks for a millisecond that they’ve fucked it, but then the curtains get thrown wide and there is a sudden flood of golden yellow light. It fills the flat. It seems almost impossible (but it’s not impossible) (time has been passing after all) (and that isn’t always a bad thing). 

It’s sunlight. 

The sun peeks into the flat, narrow beams that catch Slash’s legs in pale warmth. He screams and prances out of it like he’s crossing hot sand on a beach. His skin smokes slightly, but it stops as soon as he’s back in the shade. He waves a finger at Howard _nice try_ and then starts running for the bathroom. 

Vince sees Howard’s face fall. Vince runs (he won’t be fast enough) (it will all start again).

Then he hears a birdlike whistle. Vince catches sight of a flashing object being tossed through the air in his peripheral vision. It’s the mirror Vince had given Gadget down in the shop. 

The mirror spins toward Howard and, for once in his life, his hand/eye coordination doesn’t let him down. He catches it. He fumbles with it for a second, but he gets it turned how he wants and then there is a laser-focused beam of sunlight that catches Slash right on the back of his calf.

The gremlin screams and falters. Vince dives on top of him and pulls him back directly into the sunlight. Slash squeals pathetically, a harsh whine like disused air brakes, like steel being crushed by heavy machinery, but this time, Vince doesn’t let him go. He pins him to the ground and holds him there. 

Slash’s skin starts to smoke. It goes slimy and syrupy under Vince’s hands. Slash reaches up, he scratches at Vince ineffectually. He’s struggling, but he’s getting weaker. His body is coming apart. Bits of him begin to slough off on Vince (hot, sticky taffy) (bubblegum caught between fingers) and then...

It’s a lot like hot wax. That’s what Vince thinks, anyway, about the way the gremlin _melts_ in the sunlight. Doesn’t smell anywhere near as nice as a spa treatment, though. 

The skin goes first, peeling back to reveal cords of muscle, an understructure of tendons and tissue (an anatomical diagram made flesh) that gradually liquefies until Vince can see viscera (bundles of ropy, glossy intestine) (a rotted little heart that beats as fast as a drum machine) (lungs that rapidly expand and contract) and then that too begins to dissolve. It’s like candyfloss in rain, the way it crumbles and sluices and just... goes. 

It all turns to green goop that trickles through Vince’s fingers like melted pistachio ice cream.

Ooze flows out of the tiny leather jacket until it holds nothing but bones. Slash’s eyes melt last of all. They burst like spherical mushrooms crushed under a boot, emit little gasps of dust. 

Vince clutches the naked bones of the gremlin for a long while, unconvinced that it’s actually done. Nothing moves.

Vince looks up at Howard, “Gadget?” he asks, anxiously.

“He’s here,” Howard says. He’s standing near the sofa with a blanketed bundle in his arms. “I’ve got him.”

“Thank Christ,” Vince says. His hands are covered in milky-green dissolved remains. Which is _well_ disgusting. He holds them away from himself as he stands up. He feels a little light-headed. He closes his eyes. A thousand gremlin faces are tattooed on the back of his eyelids (he sees them bite and claw) (he watches them catch fire and turn to ash) (he watches bones get revealed like carrots bobbing up out of thick soup). Vince wobbles on his feet (everything spins like he’s on a merry-go-round) and Howard catches him around the waist.

“Whoa, there,” he says, “easy now, little man.” 

Vince can’t say anything. He just leans into Howard, inhales the scent of his sweat.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Howard asks him.

Vince shakes his head, “I’m alright. Fucking knackered, though.”

Howard’s arms tuck under Vince’s legs and he picks him up and carries him over to the sofa. He lays him down. His fingers run through Vince’s hair.

“My hands,” Vince says. “I...”

Howard takes his hand, turns it over. “Lester, get me a flannel and some water.”

Vince assumes that Lester must comply, because the next thing he knows, his hands are clean. A small, furry body is cuddling close to him. Gadget has nested himself between Vince and the back of the sofa. The curtains are drawn and the flat is dim. Howard looms over him, fussing with a blanket that he’s spread over Gadget and Vince.

“Howard,” Vince says. He reaches up and his fingers whisper through brown smoke.

“Hey, there,” Howard says. “You fell asleep.”

Vince nods. “What time is it?”

“A little after nine.”

“Lester?”

“Left. He went home.”

“Naboo?”

“Not back yet.”

Vince looks around him. The flat looks normal. “They’re all gone, yeah?”

“Seems so,” Howard says.

Vince lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He closes his eyes again. He might slip under for another moment, in fact, he probably does. 

Howard is sitting in the chair, anyway, when he opens his eyes again. He’s got a magazine open, but his eyes are shut. His chin rests on his chest. Can’t be comfortable to sleep like that, Vince thinks, but his own eyes are perilously heavy. They shutter and he’s out once more.

The next time he wakes, it’s to a ferocious clanging. Vince springs up, he assumes the worst. They missed one, and even if it wasn’t Slash, one is all it takes. Howard jumps up from the chair and they share a split second of fear and then...

“Nice work, you ballbags, keeping the bodmai _in my room_ ,” Naboo says.

Vince laughs aloud, he’s so relieved that it’s only Naboo. 

Naboo shoots him a quelling glare. He stands with his hands on his hips, the perfect picture of a dad about to give a good thrashing to his kids. Vince tries to get his face under control, but he sees Bollo standing next to the shaman (he’s got two frying pan lids held like cymbals in his hands) and that’s the best news of all.

Vince grins, “Bollo! How’d it go?”

“Bollo beat wrap,” the gorilla answers him.

“That’s great! I knew you would,” Vince says.

“Hey!” Naboo says, “That’s enough of that. What’s he,” Naboo points accusingly at Gadget, who shrinks against the sofa, “doing out here?”

“Oh, uh...” Vince says.

Howard wipes his hair back off his forehead, “Actually, Naboo, I think you’ll find—”

“Shut it. I don’t want excuses, yeah? I gave you instructions—”

“No, you didn’t!” Howard says. “If anything, Bollo gave us _rules_ , which _are not_ the same as instructions, and of which there were only three. Which we followed _to the letter,_ ” Howard says this lie with extreme credibility. He’s putting on the air of a man stipulating a clause with an intransigent customer service representative (he’s got the little affronted huff) (the I-pay-your-salary whine) (the full-fledged I-don’t-want-to-get-shouty-but-so-help-me-I-will wheedle). It’s beautiful. “Not one of them mentioned keeping him in your room, so...”

“Yeah, we haven’t done anything wrong!” Vince chips in. 

“Certainly not!” Howard says.

Naboo doesn’t look like he believes them, but he doesn’t look like he disbelieves them, either. Unreadable, is Naboo. That’s his strategy. He’s waiting for one of them to crack, to admit that the whole flat was infested by murderous cretins for the better part of the past night. Howard and Vince remain resolute. Naboo clicks his tongue, “Well, he’s not meant to be out here.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Vince says. “He was just a little bored in your room and we brought him out here so he could watch some telly—”

“You haven’t had that thing on, have you?” Naboo asks, shocked.

“Yeah! What’s wrong with that?”

“He’ll pick something up,” Naboo says, “Kyle will have my arse.” 

“He hasn’t picked anything up, have you?” Vince asks.

Gadget thinks for a moment, “Fuck,” he says. He starts singing _Metal Gods_.

Vince snickers behind his hand.

Naboo is not amused. “Right,” he says. “That’s it, then. Bollo, pack a suitcase, we’re going to Xooberon.”

“What?” Vince asks.

“You can’t handle the responsibility of a bodmai, yeah? Not only that, but he’s learned all sorts of rot from the pair of you. You’ve tainted him, you have.”

“Tainted is a bit extreme,” Howard says, even as Gadget runs to Vince and clings to his leg, “Look at them, Naboo,” Howard implores. “He’s mad about him.”

“He would be. Vince has probably been spoiling him.”

“Have not!” Vince insists. He picks up Gadget and cradles him. “I’ve just been treating him like a proper person, not a prisoner. Gadget—”

“You haven’t _named_ him, have you?”

“Course I named him. What was I supposed to call him?”

“This is a complete disaster,” Naboo cups his head with his hands, “I can’t believe all this.”

“Whatever,” Vince says, feeling persecuted.

Howard reaches out and puts a hand on his chest. “Listen, Naboo. Surely, the damage is already done? How much worse can it get?” (Naboo shoots him a look _a lot worse_ ) (boy, if only he _knew_ ) “What’s the point of running off to Xooberon now? It’s too late. Let’s just...” Howard hesitates like he can’t stand the thought of saying what he’s about to say, “have a nice Christmas Eve. I’ll make us something to eat, and we can all relax a bit, and we can catch up—”

“Catch up?” Naboo asks.

“Yeah,” Howard says, gamely, “On... current events. And all. The financial crisis, maybe.” 

_Seriously, Howard?_.

Howard catches Vince’s stare. _No good?_

_No._

Howard blinks, looks back at Naboo, “Or, you’ve got a girlfriend, maybe, now? Haven’t you?”

“It’s complicated,” Naboo says, quickly.

“Great. Right, well, we can talk about... that,” Howard offers with no enthusiasm.

“What do you know about relationships?” Naboo spits.

“Hey,” Vince says, “Howard’s great at relationships.”

“That right?” Naboo asks, scathingly.

“Yeah, that is right,” Vince says. He glances over at Howard. They have another wordless exchange. Vince’s heart hammers. He’s standing on a high ledge in the dark with one foot over the side. He’s got to believe that there will be a step there for him to stand on or else there won’t be. He takes Howard’s hand. “He’s aces at them.”

Naboo’s eyes flick down toward their joined hands. Bollo’s jaw doesn’t drop, but it sinks a fraction of a centimeter before it pops back into place. Vince tosses his hair, which probably doesn’t look as impressive as he would like, since he hasn’t styled it in over twenty-four hours, but still.

Naboo looks unimpressed. “Glad you’ve sorted that out,” he says, “took you long enough.” Nothing, apparently, could surprise him less.

“We’ve been together for six months,” Vince adds, hoping for a little bit of astonishment, a reaction... or _something_.

Naboo’s lips quirks up in a quarter smile. “That explains it then,” he says.

“Explains what?” Howard asks.

“Why you haven’t been a complete jerkoff lately.”

Vince snorts. Howard shoots him a look. Vince kisses him on the cheek and Howard’s glare softens.

Naboo makes a quick noise of disgust. 

“Get used to it,” Vince says, firmly. He says it as much to the flat at large as he does to Howard (it’s a warning). _I’m going to be all over you, now_. Howard doesn’t look like he minds.

Howard clears his throat. He looks back at Naboo, “Point is, what can one more night really hurt, anyway?”

Naboo’s mouth opens, but Bollo cuts him off. “Bollo no want to go to Xooberon,” he chips in, “Bollo want to stay home and sleep in own bed. Bollo freeze balls off in dark forest all night under spurious charge. Bollo almost put to death. Need rest and relaxation.”

“It is Christmas,” Vince adds.

Gadget starts a high-pitched, chirrupy version of _I’ll be Home for Christmas_ which is so damned adorable that Vince can’t help giving him a little squeeze.

Naboo gives the longest suffering sigh that Vince has ever heard. “Fine,” he says. “But tomorrow, Bollo, we’re going to Xooberon. All three of us,” he says, looking at Gadget.

Vince smiles anyway, “Cheers, Naboo.”

Naboo squints at him (like he’s staring directly into the sun) but he doesn’t say anything. He looks away, “Unbelievable,” he says. He shuffles down the hall, “Call me when you’ve got dinner ready, alright, Howard?”

“You got it,” Howard says.

Naboo’s door slams. A moment later, Naboo’s got some Fleetwood Mac blaring behind his door. He’s probably looking to get off his tits as soon as possible.

Bollo slumps in the kitchen. He eyes Gadget (still held in Vince’s arms) a little jealously.

Vince smiles at him, “Want some tea? Maybe some biscuits, Bollo?”

Bollo doesn’t say anything. He just walks to Vince and then wraps him in a ferocious hug. Vince has to hold Gadget out of the way so that he doesn’t get crushed. “Bollo miss Vince.” 

Vince pats him on the back, “I missed you too. I’m glad it all turned out alright.”

Bollo releases him. Vince guides him over to the couch like he’s an invalid. “Here, have a lie down, why don’t you?”

“Vince good friend,” Bollo says. 

Vince smiles at the gorillia, “Thanks, mate.”

Bollo looks over at Howard. His eyes whittle down a fraction, “Bollo no want to show Harold the meaning of pain, but if he hurt Vince…”

Howard rolls his eyes at the threat and Vince chuckles, “Easy, Bollo. Howard really is alright at being my…” Vince hesitates a moment (but there’s really only one thing to call it at this point), “boyfriend.”

Howard’s head turns, their eyes meet _yeah, it’s like that_ , and the thing is done.

Bollo grunts like he doesn’t believe him. Vince pats him again. He pulls the blanket over him and Bollo is sleeping within twenty seconds.

Vince hikes Gadget up to his shoulder. The bodmai is starting to flag. Vince is still worn out, too, come to mention it, but Howard clearly aims to stay up. He’s going through their cabinets and looking at what they’ve got that he can cobble a meal out of.

“Sounds like you’ll be getting Bollo in the divorce,” Howard says. He takes down a few cans and lays them out on the counter.

“I’m getting it all in the divorce,” Vince says.

“That right? How do you suppose you’ll manage that?”

“Well, you’ll have cheated on me.”

Howard raises an eyebrow at him. “Will I have?”

“Yeah,” Vince says. “With a saxophone. You’re a very sick man.”

Howard smirks.

“Want some help?” Vince asks.

“No,” Howard says. He looks at Vince and Gadget, “Take care of him, why don’t you?” he returns to his rummaging, “I’ll handle this.”

“Howard,” Vince says. Howard looks at him again, “I love you.”

“Going to be doing that all the time, are you?”

“Yes,” Vince says. “Everyone is going to have to get used to that, too.”

Howard’s lips quirk into a sly smile. He glances over at the sofa where Bollo has softly begun to snore. He leans forward and kisses Vince on the cheek (his moustache tickles), “I love you, too,” he says softly.

Vince is happy that Gadget is going to stay with them for a while longer. He’s happy to take care of him, too. But he’s also looking forward to Naboo and Bollo being away for a bit, because he is going to take advantage of their absence. In every possible way.

Howard might be reading his thoughts (but he can’t read all of them). Vince smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am so sorry for all of blood and guts in this fic. It's a consequence of my upbringing. My mom let me start watching horror movies too young.


	16. Chapter 16

Overall, Christmas Eve doesn’t turn out too badly. Howard goes down to Tesco and fights through crowds of last-minute holiday meal preppers, like himself, almost has to throw a punch to secure a turkey, and nearly gets knifed over a canned pudding, but, after the past twenty-four hours he’s had, he’s unfussed. _Try it_ his eyes say, and every time someone looks at him, they seem to decide they’d rather not.

Howard goes to the DIY, too, picks up some other last-minute items, and then returns home. 

He’s not a great cook. He’s adequate, better at it than any of his flatmates, anyway, but he’s not exceptional. He’s got the kind of cooking ability that comes from knowing enough to follow a recipe and knowing enough not to try anything too fancy or complex.

He ends up with turkey, gravy, potatoes, and some roasted carrots for dinner, the canned pudding for dessert. None of it looks like that stupid fucking Mark’s ad, but Vince carries on over it like it’s just as good as any over-priced, over-packaged edible substitute for sex.

He sneaks little tastes of everything while he ‘gets ready’ for dinner, a process that, apparently, requires additional fairy lights strung around the flat, a bundle of presents unloaded at the bottom of the tree, then a lengthy bath, at least three different changes that Howard is allowed to see, and an even lengthier styling session for his hair. 

When he’s done, the flat looks like a glowing, bohemian holiday advert; Vince himself looks like a sexually liberated Jack Frost, his body encased in clinging silver and white, with his hair left soft and unteased and shining in the fairy lights like a dark mirror.

Vince’s lips shine, too, with some sort of clear gloss, and they barely stop moving. He talks and laughs and puts on such a show of good humor and joy that it’s infectious.

It probably helps that Naboo comes out of his room with red, hazy eyes and stinking so strongly of hash, that Howard feels a little high, just standing in the same room with him. It probably helps, too, that Bollo has had a good sleep, and that Vince is judiciously dividing his attention between him and Gadget.

Vince keeps them all entertained and happy, the consummate host, even when all of them (save Gadget) live there.

It seems as though there shouldn’t be enough of him left over for Howard, but there is. Vince takes every excuse to touch him. He trails his fingers on Howard’s back when he sneaks by him in the kitchen, he tips his head onto Howard’s shoulder for a moment at dinner, he presses a kiss into his cheek when Howard serves him his slice of the pudding, he steps up behind Howard and wraps his arms around him before they go sit around the tree together.

The touches aren’t sexy, precisely, but every one of them warms Howard, unfolds something tight in his chest. The touches feel like an assurance _you’re not dreaming, Howard_ Vince’s fingers whisper.

_Boyfriend. Howard has a boyfriend._

And it’s Vince.

All of it leaves him buzzing just a little, like accidental feedback captured in a particularly hot live session. It layers over him and fills him up with potential energy.

Vince senses it. Howard knows that he does. Vince keeps watch on him like he’s put Howard on to boil, like he’s checking on how his progress is ticking along.

Howard cannot wait until they’re alone.

Vince probably senses that too, possibly that explains the mischief in his eyes as he kneels down at the base of the tree, before he looks away from Howard and starts playing the lady bountiful again. He pulls out three presents from the small stack of artistically wrapped boxes that he laid out earlier.

“Here you go, Bollo, Naboo,” he says, handing them each a box. He holds onto the remaining box for a moment, makes a show of reading the label, “And... looks like Gadget, too.”

The bodmai dances excitedly as he takes the little box Vince hands him.

Howard wonders where his gift is and Vince reads the thought before he can voice it, “You’re going to have to wait until morning,” he says, grinning.

“Sex stuff,” Naboo stage whispers to Bollo. 

“Open your gifts,” Vince instructs, not bothering to confirm or deny Naboo’s suspicions. 

Howard is happy that he doesn’t take a blush easily.

Vince has got Naboo a new hashpipe, a squirming purple glass sea serpent with green fins running up its back. Bollo gets gloves that look like gorilla hands. Bollo pulls them on and flexes his fingers. Naboo stares at them in stunned silence. 

Gadget opens his present last. 

It’s a jumper in blue, yellow, red, and green. Uno is knitted across the front. “I hope you like it,” Vince says. “I made it up while you were sleeping.”

Gadget coos. He tugs it on. His fur bristles up at the edges of the sweater. He does a little spin for them.

Vince wheedles Howard into getting out his keyboard and playing some carols so they can have a little sing-along. Bollo gets some hand drums out and keeps rhythm. Vince has to pester Naboo to join in, and once he finally does, his voice is flat and toneless, but Gadget makes up for Naboo’s lack of enthusiasm with his virtuoso trilling.

So, yeah, as far as Christmas Eves go, it’s not so bad.

After the sing-along, they call it an early night. Howard leaves Vince with Naboo, Bollo, and Gadget in the living room and goes to get ready for bed. He showers and shaves, puts on a fresh, clean pair of pajamas. When he exits the bathroom, he notices that a shaft of light is hitting the wall across from Vince’s partially open door. The silent invitation is clear enough. Howard doesn’t want to sleep anywhere else in any case.

He shuts Vince’s door behind him.

Vince is sitting up in the middle of his round bed, his knees tucked under him. His kimono gapes open at his neck and pools over his thighs.

“All right?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

Howard glances around the room, “Gadget?”

“Naboo’s. Naboo wants to get an early start.”

“Ah,” Howard says. 

Howard doesn’t run, but he doesn’t precisely walk, either, to close the distance between them. 

He pushes Vince onto his back, slots himself between Vince’s thighs and Vince locks him into place by linking his ankles behind Howard’s hips. Vince’s lips pull at Howard’s mouth, he fists his hand into Howard’s hair and Howard’s scalp tingles as Vince’s fingers coil and uncoil. He pulls down Howard’s pajamas and his pants and Howard shucks them onto the floor.

Howard slides his hand up Vince’s thigh.

Vince, of course, isn’t wearing a scrap underneath the kimono.

Howard moans and Vince bucks up into him. His length is already solid and tight against Howard’s stomach. Howard tucks his arm under Vince and rolls him so that Vince is on top. 

Vince’s thighs settle over Howard’s hips like new-fallen snow. His whole body rests over Howard’s, light, and lithe. His hands twist in Howard’s hair, travel down his sides, all the while they kiss. 

Vince is vicious when it comes to kissing. He uses teeth as much as lips and tongue, likes to alternate between the sharpness of one and the softness of the others, and he always _knows_ which it is that Howard wants. Or maybe, it doesn’t rightly matter what is being done to Howard, so long as it’s Vince who is doing it. 

A moan breaks out of Howard’s throat. Vince laughs, “You make the filthiest noises, Howard,” he says. His voice is rough, pitched low. “I love it.” 

_Oh._ Howard gets that far, one single stab of understanding, how Vince is going to be tonight, before his thoughts get stolen by the motion of Vince’s prick sliding against his own. 

Howard holds Vince at the small of his back, wants to keep him close, but Vince will not be dictated to. He sucks Howard’s bottom lip into his mouth and then rolls up, letting Howard’s lip pop out of his mouth with the motion of his body. He is so small, so thin, so delicate looking, as he looks down over Howard. His prick is such a contrast.

It’s slipped from beneath the kimono, of course it has, the damned thing is so bloody _big_. 

Vince isn’t larger than Howard, not really, but they are of a size, and while Howard is proportionate, Vince looks (in this area as in most) fucking pornographic.

Howard manages to stop staring at Vince’s cock. He looks up and Vince’s eyelashes are fanned across his cheeks. Of course he’s seen Howard looking at him. He’s smiling, “Like what you see?” he asks. 

_Fuck it_ Howard thinks. “Yes,” he gasps. Vince breaks out in a grin. He unties the belt at his waist, the kimono slips open from his chest all the way down to his thighs. His pale skin glows pink, the sparse dark hair on his chest is picked out in sharp relief, the barest hint of rosy nipple teases out at the edge of the kimono. All of him is a visual feast that Howard wants to gorge himself on. 

Vince slides both of his palms up the naked line of his torso and slips the silky garment off his shoulders. He unwraps himself like he’s a gift.

He is.

If he’s reading Howard’s thoughts, he obviously likes what he’s hearing. His smile only intensifies as he runs his hands through his own hair and brushes it back. He rolls his hips a little so that Howard’s cock is pressed between them.

Vince tucks his fingers under the hem of Howard’s vest, “Howard,” he says, unnecessarily. He has Howard’s complete and whole attention. Nothing else on earth could possibly compete with Vince Noir for Howard’s attention.

“Yeah?” Howard manages to choke out.

“You remember when we made that bet on Uno?”

It seems a million years ago, but he remembers. Howard nods.

“What were you going to ask for, if you won?”

“I didn’t win,” Howard says.

Vince reaches down and strokes Howard’s cock. His fingers are light on Howard’s skin. He’s just teasing him, but tension starts bunching up at the base of Howard’s spine anyway. “I know,” Vince says, “but what was it you wanted?”

“I...” Howard starts. Vince traces up and over the head of Howard’s prick. He slides down Howard’s foreskin. His face is an expressionless mask, but his eyes are intent on Howard’s. “I wanted...” Howard can’t, for the life of him, make himself say it. It’s embarrassing, this, not being able to talk to his partner like a proper adult.

Vince tightens his fist around Howard’s cock, “A bumming?” he asks.

Howard’s eyes dart down to Vince’s prick. He wants it, wants Vince’s cock as completely as Vince has had his. He wants to feel Vince buried deep inside him. He wants to know how it feels, if it possibly could feel as good as Vince makes it seem when Howard hits that place inside his body. He looks back up and Vince is smirking. He knows already, knows what the answer is, but he tilts his head to the side, “Go on. Is that what you want?”

Howard swallows. “Yes,” he gasps.

Vince hums. He looks over Howard like he’s surveying his rightful territory. He teases at the edge of Howard’s vest once more. “Then that’s what you’ll get. But,” he lowers his face over Howard’s body. His lips tickle at Howard’s belly through the fabric of the vest, “I want something too,” he says, his tone soft and predatory. “I want to touch you, everywhere.” He glances all the way up Howard’s body, until their eyes meet. 

“Please,” Vince adds, his voice turning plaintive. There is the smallest hint of a whine to it, like he’s desperate for Howard to agree. 

Howard’s instinct is to give Vince whatever he wants, he can’t stand the thought of denying him anything, but he also feels protective, over his belly that’s just slightly too soft, slightly too round, over the less than ideal picture he knows he presents. He’s always considered that it wasn’t something that Vince wanted to touch anyway, that the pieces of himself Howard finds wanting are pieces that Vince simply ignores, not pieces that he wants to explore.

But the look on Vince’s face has him reevaluating his presumption.

Howard nods his consent.

Vince’s lashes flutter. He pulls up Howard’s vest, pulls it over Howard’s head, and leans down. He kisses Howard, his fingers searching for Howard’s nipple. He finds it and gives it a quick roll and lightning shoots down Howard’s back. He arches his back and gasps out a moan. Vince laughs against his mouth.

“You take me apart, Howard. Honestly, you do.”

He licks just under Howard’s ear, gives him a little nibble, and then sucks his skin into his mouth, teases at the line of pleasure and pain. Howard wriggles underneath him, “Vince,” he says, desperately.

Vince sucks his neck harder, then pulls back. His fingers trace the edge of what Howard knows is going to end up being a love bite. He traces down Howard’s neck, down his sides. He watches Howard the whole while, staring like he can’t pull his eyes away.

“You’re mine,” Vince says, “you’re all mine. I want everyone to know it,” Vince says, licking the love bite gently. He trails kisses down Howard’s body, across his chest, down his sides. He bites at the soft flesh then cups his hands around either side of Howard’s gently rounded belly. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Vince continues, huskily. He gives Howard a squeeze. Howard feels his flesh mound. His instinct is to hide, but Vince doesn’t give him the chance. He buries his face in Howard’s belly, his nose presses into Howard’s skin, he dips his tongue into Howard’s belly button, and Vince moans. Howard echoes him, unable to help himself, unsure if he actually likes Vince snogging his stomach or if he just likes how much Vince obviously likes it. Vince’s voice breaks around another groan, “So, so, fucking beautiful.” 

Vince bites the top of Howard’s bellybutton just hard enough for Howard to feel the edges of his teeth dig in and then he swipes his tongue over the bite, “You feel like heaven. You’re paradise.” 

“Please,” Howard manages to gasp. He’s not sure he can take the... whatever it is that Vince is doing. It’s bizarre, this. The... adulation. Vince saying these things like he means them, touching him like he means them, too. 

“Gorgeous, that’s what you are. Too fucking much,” he whispers just before he crawls up Howard’s body, takes his nipple into his mouth and sucks it with a gentle but firm pressure. 

“Oh, Christ,” Howard gasps. 

Vince seizes Howard’s prick in his hand, “Don’t say anyone’s name but mine, Howard. Say my name for me.” 

“ _Vince_ ,” Howard moans, he thrusts up into Vince’s hand while Vince’s tongue circles and presses, teases him hard. Vince, naturally, eats this up. He _would_ , arrogant shithead that he is, disassembling Howard bit by bit, proving to himself, to Howard, how completely Howard belongs to him; he likes hearing Howard pray to him, and Howard is a natural born atheist, but, oh God, he worships at the altar of Vince Noir. 

Vince’s hips are rolling, his cock hot and hard against Howard’s thigh, his hand on Howard’s prick, his other fisted in Howard’s hair, his whole body one complete, moving vehicle of lust.

Vince unlatches from Howard’s nipple. Howard catches a glimpse of his face as he sits up and it’s the face of a fanatic. His expression is dark and transcendent all at once, like Vince is transported somewhere else. Howard is praying to Vince, but Vince is praying right back. He catches Vince’s eye, just as Vince is lowering his mouth toward Howard’s prick then Howard’s view is cut off. 

Vince holds the base of Howard’s cock firmly, but he just holds it, “I want to use you up, Howard,” he whispers against Howard’s cock, “I want you to come for me so hard you cry. Show me, Howard. Show me how much you want me...” Vince’s tongue traces a line along Howard’s slit, he licks down Howard’s shaft and back up. He takes Howard’s prick in his mouth and slides down to the base of it so that Howard can feel himself hit the back of Vince’s throat before Vince hollows his cheeks out and _sucks_ all the way back up. 

“Oh… Chri— Vince,” Howard whimpers. It’s a hot, velvet utopia, it’s everywhere Howard has ever wanted to be and just where he thought he’d never go. His eyes squeeze shut. He can’t help the short, sharp little thrusts he makes into Vince’s throat, he can’t take the sensation of it all. It’s spreading through his body, a vibrating, tensing wildfire. He feels so hard, he feels so good, he’s falling or flying, unable to tell the difference and unable to make himself care. “ _Vince_ ,” he says heatedly. He’s going to lose it, he’s going to go...

But Vince’s sense of Howard’s body is as keen as Howard’s own. He pulls up and off Howard’s prick just before Howard can’t take it anymore. Sensation recedes, the promise of release respools into something tight. _Jesus_. 

Vince has stopped touching him entirely, but Howard can hear him breathing. Sounds like he’s run a mile.

Howard opens his eyes and Vince is on his knees between Howard’s spread thighs, his fringe brushed back off his forehead. He’s leaning over Howard, shifting aside some pillows, fishing around in the blankets, looking for something. 

It seems impossible, but Howard knows that Vince is close, too. He’s as high on making Howard desperate as Howard is at being made desperate. He’ll lose it at the slightest provocation.

Howard knows all this.

And Vince’s prick is tantalizingly near Howard’s mouth. 

Howard reaches forward and grabs Vince by the hips and he hauls him up toward his face.

Vince makes a shocked yelp at being suddenly manhandled and then he’s the one whose moans are cutting through the air. His knees are under Howard’s armpits, he balances himself on his elbows over Howard’s head, his prick is in Howard’s mouth. 

Howard pulls at his hips to encourage him to thrust, and then Vince is fucking his face. “I can’t, I can’t… oh, Christy, fuck _me_ , Howard,” Vince says, his voice breaking on Howard’s name as he comes in Howard’s mouth.

Howard swallows him down while Vince swears.

“Fuck,” Vince says. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What is wrong with you?” he asks. He shifts himself so that he can look Howard in the eye, “I can’t…”

Howard licks his lips, “You last longer, your second go around.” 

Vince laughs, “You picked a moment to get a mouth on you, haven’t you?” Vince leans back and swings himself to Howard’s right side, “Want me to fuck you all night?” he asks with the dirtiest, filthiest fucking smirk Howard has ever seen in his life, which is saying something. He’s been getting Vince’s smirks aimed at him for the better part of a decade.

Howard searches for some sort of comeback, but he can’t find one. 

He doesn’t need to.

Vince traces a loose circle around his areola with his finger and shivers climb Howard’s spine. “I suppose I haven’t got anything else on, but now you’re going to have to wait. How do you think we should pass the time?” he asks conversationally. “I do need to get you ready for me, maybe we could see how long it can take?” Vince pulls his circling finger tighter, his touch feather light. “Do you think I can get you to beg for it? For me to fuck you?”

Howard shivers.

Vince bites his tongue, “Alright, on your stomach then. And don’t touch yourself, yeah? I see any stroking and I’ll stop. I’m the one who’ll make you come tonight.”

Howard rolls onto his belly. His cock, nested between his stomach and the mattress, aches so badly that Howard wants to thrust against it, and, although Vince hasn’t expressly forbidden it, Howard doesn’t want to take any chances. He holds himself still.

Vince caresses Howard’s arse. Every touch he puts on him is a whisper of a touch, so soft, it could be a breeze going over his skin. Every touch has purpose.

Vince sits up, teases down the inside of Howard’s thigh and Howard opens his legs. Vince gets on his knees, settles himself behind Howard. He leans forward and places a kiss at the small of Howard’s back, his breath feels moist and hot on Howard’s skin, “When I’m inside you, you’re going to tell me who you belong to.”

Vince’s tongue lavishes attention upon the base of Howard’s spine, travels lower, deeper.

“Ah,” Howard says, as Vince spreads the cheeks of his arse and licks down his cleft. The tip of his tongue finds Howard’s entrance and Vince pushes forward, and Howard feels the first hint of intrusion. He groans.

“You’re so sensitive,” Vince says with a chuckle, “You’re a fucking wet dream, the way you sing for me.”

He says all of this with his lips tickling at Howard’s arse, peppers little nips of tooth between the words, then he goes back in deep.

Howard fists his hands into Vince’s sheets, claws through the gradually expanding pleasure Vince’s tongue is working out of his arsehole. He wants to thrust, he wants his aching prick to be touched, but Vince is thoroughly ignoring it, and Howard isn’t about to risk any type of cessation of Vince’s activities.

But, he feels he has to do something, “Vince,” he whines. Vince drives his tongue deeper.

“Oh, god,” Howard says, “Please, I need…”

Vince perks up, “What do you need?”

“I need… I need…”

Vince bites the meat of Howard’s arse, “Say you want my fingers inside you.”

“Please, please…”

“Say it, Howard. Say it.”

“Just, you know what I want, just fucking do—”

Howard is shocked by the feel of Vince’s slickened finger entering him, shocked at how loose he must be, because Vince just enters him, then he crooks his finger, and it’s like he’s known the whole time precisely where to go. The feeling is too much, far too much, too good, too strong, just fucking everything all at once, his whole body comes to crackling, snapping life.

Howard hears himself wail.

Behind him, Vince swears. He straightens his finger, “You’re going to wake everyone up.”

“Like you’d mind,” Howard says.

Vince laughs, “You’re right, I don’t mind. I want everyone to know that I fuck you. I want everyone to look at us and know that I can make you fall the fuck apart,” Howard can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “with a crook of my finger, but I really think Naboo will kill us if we wake him up tonight. So, you’ve got to quiet down a bit.”

“Maybe you could—”

Howard doesn’t get to finish the suggestion he was about to make, and shortly, doesn’t even remember what it was about to be.

Vince finds Howard’s prostate again and it’s like it was before. Howard can’t keep still and keep quiet. He thrusts against the mattress, bites into a pillow and keens a desperate, but quiet(er) wail, against it.

“When I’m inside you, you’re going to lose it so fucking fast, aren’t you?” Vince asks. He keeps working Howard with his finger, stretching him until Howard feels him add a second, “I want to be there right now. I’m ready for you again, Howard. I’m so fucking hard for you, it hurts.”

Vince presses his erection against Howard’s leg, and Howard feels it; hard, hot, and long, a promise and a threat, something that Howard wants enough to go completely inarticulate. He pushes back against Vince’s hand, he wants Vince to _go faster_ , but Vince won’t, he doesn’t. He takes his sweet fucking time, teases Howard with his fingers and his words.

By the time Vince adds a third finger to him, Howard is nothing but a ball of moans and whines, he’s trying to keep quiet, and given all he’s going through, he feels he deserves a gold star in that department, but he is constantly making some type of noise. It sounds desperate to his own ears, sounds enough, he feels, like begging, that it doesn’t seem that much different when he says, “Fuck, Vince, please, please, fuck me.”

Vince goes still. His fingers stop scissoring inside of him for a moment before they resume. He continues working in and out of Howard like nothing has happened, but he doesn’t _say_ anything.

“Please, fuck me, p-please, I’m ready, fuck me, I want you inside me, I need you inside me, I need all of you inside me, please.”

Vince withdraws his fingers and Howard feels wretchedly empty. He very nearly sobs, “Vince, _please_.”

“Howard,” Vince says thickly, “roll over. Now.”

Howard does. Vince uncaps the lube again, pulls a line of it directly on his cock, slicks himself up while Howard watches. Vince watches him watch. Howard worries that Vince is going to make a show of it, that he’s going to keep slowly pumping himself in his own fist while Howard has nothing to fill him. “Vince, I need your cock to make me come. Make me come.”

Vince’s hand flies away from his own prick, like he can’t touch himself and listen to Howard at the same time. He puts Howard’s knees over his shoulders, Howard’s body curls up and Vince shifts him forward. He guides his prick into contact with Howard’s entrance, slides into Howard like they’ve done this a hundred times.

He fills Howard completely.

Vince doesn’t move for a moment. He inhales a shaky breath, “Say…” is all that he can manage.

Howard knows what he wants, “I’m yours, just for you, I’m all yours, Vince, fuck m—"

Vince moans. His hips jerk, possibly with less control than he would like. His first and second thrusts miss, anyway, but the third he aims perfectly short and sharp, and that’s all it takes. 

Howard orgasms explosively, keening, wailing, as his release purges his senses.

Vince pumps into him frantically, his hips slamming home against Howard’s arse with a series of violent slaps, until, “ _Howard_ ,” the one-word benediction falls from Vince’s lips. His eyes roll up in his head, he tosses his head back and then he slides from under Howards knees. He falls over him. His mouth seeks Howard’s and he kisses him. “I love you,” Vince says between kisses. “Fucking Christ, I love you.”

His fingers stroke either side of Howard’s face. He traces the shell of Howard’s ear with his fingertips. He caresses Howard’s hair. His cock gradually softens and it slips out of Howard on its own. Howard’s prick is sandwiched between their bellies where about ten liters of semen has started to slowly dry. 

Howard’s arse is bizarrely slick. It seems as though it should bother him more than it does. Indeed, some persnickety part of his personality is griping about it, but it’s just a whisper that falls silent the longer Vince holds him. 

He pets Vince’s hair and Vince purrs with contentment.

They float back down to earth together.

Vince’s breathing is starting to go slow and even. Howard shakes him and Vince shifts. “Sorry,” Vince says tiredly. He yawns, “Want a shower?”

Howard hums, “Probably should.”

“Yeah,” Vince agrees. He props himself up on his hands and pushes himself off of Howard. He flops onto his back, completely naked, covered in semen, a complete mess. The best thing Howard has ever seen.

Howard gets up and stretches. He is undeniably sore, but he couldn’t care less. 

He looks back at Vince, who will absolutely fall asleep if Howard leaves him there. Howard grabs his hand. He gives him a tug, “Come on. Shower with me?”

Vince groans, but he gets up. 

They wash one another clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I refer to it twice, I'm including a [link](https://youtu.be/EHFKE6PD_6U) to the Marks and Spencer ad that Howard hates so much. You can check it out and let me know if you think the lady sounds inappropriately excited about braised cabbage too (she does).
> 
> One more chapter to go! This last one may end up coming after Christmas (just want to make sure that I have something I'm happy with before it goes up) but I figured I could get at least this much posted and feel alright about getting the bulk of the fic up before Christmas Eve.


	17. Chapter 17

Vince wakes up with his face buried in Howard’s armpit. Howard is on his back, completely naked beside him, his chest slowly rising and falling as he sleeps. He adjusts his position slightly, so that his head is resting on Howard’s shoulder, wraps his arm around Howard’s waist and gently grips the flesh at his side. His skin is so soft, so warm, the sound of his somnolent breath so soothing, that Vince is fully prepared to sleep a hundred years next to him. Well, _most_ of him is. 

His cock seems to think that sleep isn’t wholly necessary at this point, but Vince ignores the slight stiffening of his prick as it rests against Howard’s thigh, makes a silent bargain with it (later, after they’ve both had another three hours or so, he’ll take care of it, _amply_ ) and closes his eyes. He expects to drift back off, but then he hears it. The sound which must have woken him to begin with, soft footsteps in the hall.

Vince hasn’t got any idea what time it is, but it’s still dark. It must be very early, but he doesn’t want to miss his chance to say goodbye.

Reluctantly, he sits up.

Next to him, Howard stirs, “Whas going on?” he asks (his arm reaches up and his hand automatically closes around Vince’s wrist) ( _don’t go anywhere_ ).

“I think Naboo’s getting ready to leave,” Vince says softly, he reaches down and caresses the side of Howard’s face (Howard’s grip on his arm slowly relaxes), “I’m just going to pop out and say goodbye to Gadget.”

“Mmm,” Howard hums. His eyes slowly blink open, “I should…” he says around a yawn, “I want to say goodbye too.”

Vince leans over and gives him a kiss on the forehead. He gets out of bed and throws on the first pair of pajamas he finds, tugs on a t-shirt and wraps himself in his kimono. Howard watches him dress before he, himself, gets up.

Vince hands him his pajamas off the floor. “Thanks,” Howard says. He pulls on his vest and pants, pulls on the pajamas.

Howard neglected to bring his dressing gown in with him the night before, so Vince hands him a spare dressing gown of his. Howard eyes it dubiously.

“Put it on, you’ll be cold without,” Vince says.

“Do you have anything less... sheer?”

“No,” Vince tells him (he does). 

“I don’t think it’s going to fit me,” Howard grumbles.

“It’ll be fine. It’s blousy. Stop whinging and put it on so we can get out there, alright?”

Howard sighs, but he shrugs into it. As predicted, it doesn’t quite fit him (it stretches too tight around his shoulders, leaves his forearms exposed, rides up too short at his shins) (but it _is_ well worth it to see Howard in it). The fabric is a slightly translucent, rosy red, a shower of iridescent sequins is spread across the shoulders like a dusting of pink snow, fluffy, white faux fur lines the cuffs and the hems. It’s what Elton John would wear if he had to dress up as one of those berobed Father Christmases for a drag ball.

“Shut up,” Howard says (he’s seen how Vince is grinning at him).

“Whatever. I wore your shirt yesterday and didn’t say a word. Anyway, you won’t be complaining when I put it on for you later, will you?”

“Yeah, well, you’re not going to have anything on underneath, knowing you.”

Vince bites his lip, “No, I won’t,” he confirms breathily.

“Tart,” Howard says.

Vince shrugs, _yeah, so?_

He reaches up and tucks the dressing gown’s collar down, his fingers trail over the dark mark he sucked onto Howard’s neck the night before ( _mine, mine, mine_ ), pleased that it’s just visible at the edge of Howard’s hair. He feels a bit immature for having done it, feels like something sixteen-year-olds do, give someone a love bite to prove that you’re going together.

Still, he likes seeing it there. Likes it, too, that Howard hasn’t got a choice, now. People (when they see them with one another) are going to assume that it was Vince’s mouth that put the mark there, they’re going to _know_. 

The silence in Vince’s room is getting a little charged. It’s possible that Howard knows why Vince’s fingers can’t seem to stop stroking just past his pulse point.

Howard clears his throat. “We should... um...” he nods at Vince’s door.

“Yeah,” Vince agrees.

They leave Vince’s room together.

Naboo stands in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea. He looks a little rough (his eyes are puffy, his turban a bit askew) as he turns to peer at Vince and Howard. His lips compress into a thin line before he shakes his head. He sits down at the kitchen table wordlessly. 

Bollo is closing a suitcase in the middle of the living room floor. Two more suitcases are leaning against the stairs, packed and ready to go.

Vince doesn’t see Gadget at first, but then the bodmai turns the corner around the edge of the sofa. As soon as he sees Vince, his ears twitch forward. He squeaks excitedly, stretches out his arms and runs toward him. 

Vince scoops him up in a hug, “All right?” he asks him. “Didn’t think we’d miss the chance to say goodbye, did you?”

Gadget burrows his head against Vince’s chest, and Vince squeezes him tight.

“Leaving soon?” Howard asks Naboo.

“Yeah, soon as I finish my tea,” he says. He rubs at his temples, “While we’re gone, you two take care of the shop, yeah? I don’t want you closed all week or anything like that. After Boxing Day, it’s back to regular hours, alright?”

“Absolutely,” Howard says.

Naboo nods, takes a sip of his tea. “If anyone,” there is a fractional pause that seems to suggest a very specific _anyone_ rather than a general anyone, “shows up looking for me this week, tell them I’m away until New Year’s.”

Vince makes a face, “Uh, _she’s_ not likely to swing round, is she?”

Naboo shrugs. He’s got an expression on. You wouldn’t call it much on anyone else, but on Naboo it passes for a full out fucking grin. 

_Oh, Jesus_. 

The shaman tips up his cup and drains the rest of it. “Alright, Bollo, let’s go.”

“You don’t want any breakfast?” Vince asks (Gadget is still snuggling in his arms).

“No,” Naboo says. He puts his cup in the sink. He looks toward Vince impatiently.

Vince gets the message. “I’m going to miss you,” he says to Gadget, “I hope you had fun,” (insofar as you can when you’re fighting for your life half the time), “and... I’m never going to forget you.”

Gadget looks up at him with large, damp eyes. Vince blinks, ignores as best he can how overfull his own eyes feel. “Want to say goodbye to Howard?” he asks.

Vince turns toward Howard (who still glitters away in his borrowed dressing gown) and Howard has a look on his face like he’s thinking it’s unlikely Gadget will, but Gadget reaches his arms out, and Howard’s expression thaws. He takes Gadget from Vince, gives him a hug, “See you… around,” he says, giving the bodmai one of his signature awkward pats.

“Bye bye, Howard,” Gadget coos. Howard’s face goes completely squidgy. He quickly hands Gadget back to Vince and turns toward the refrigerator as though it’s suddenly fascinating.

“Bye bye, Vince,” Gadget says. Vince tucks the bodmai under his chin and gives him his last hug. He carries him into the kitchen, goes into the sweets cabinet and pulls out a lolly, “Here, take this. And remember what I said.”

Gadget nods.

Naboo makes a noise of disgust, “All of you need to stop carrying on like this. It’s making me sick.” He takes Gadget from Vince, stands next to Bollo near the luggage. “We’ll be back in six days. Don’t mess with my stuff. Don’t fuck up the flat,” Naboo covers Gadget’s ears, “And get all of your loud, messy sex out of your systems before we get back. I’m not spending another night having to listen to the type of racket I did yesterday. I’m not joking, I _will_ evict you,” he says sternly. He holds out his hand toward Bollo, “Come on, Bollo.”

The gorilla takes Naboo’s hand. Vince takes a step toward them both to give them goodbye hug, but Naboo presses the button on the amulet around his neck before he gets a chance.

“Merry Christmas,” Vince says to the empty air.

Vince sags a little, already missing Gadget and Bollo, even Naboo.

Howard puts his hands on his shoulders. “They’ll be back before you know it.”

Vince huffs a laugh and looks back over his shoulder at him. “Yeah.”

Howard gives him a little peck that lands just to the left of Vince’s mouth. He looks over at the tree, “You want to do presents? Since we’re up?”

Howard is trying to cheer him up, Vince knows. “Presents?” he asks, “You can’t mean you’ve got me something?”

Howard puffs up a little, obviously sure that he’s pulled one over on Vince. “I think you’ll find I have, sir.”

Vince grins, “Really? Something good, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. Prepare to be blown away. Go plug in the tree or whatever you have to do. I’ll go get your gift.”

Vince puts the kettle on while Howard goes down the hall. He plugs in all the fairy lights that he put up yesterday so that there is a warm glow cast over everything. The flat looks colorful, cheerful, and homey. He settles himself down by the tree and looks over at the two boxes left underneath. He smiles a bit at that. Howard hasn’t got any idea what he’s in for.

Howard comes back out of his room. He’s not bothered to put on his proper dressing gown (he’s going the extra mile today), and he’s carrying a small box. It’s wrapped up in black and white spirals, with a black bow on top. It’s well apparent that Howard hasn’t wrapped it himself (his idea of wrapping things doesn’t go beyond newsprint and masking tape), but it looks nice, so it doesn’t matter.

Howard sits on the sofa, drapes the dressing gown across his legs. His fingers tap at the edges of the small, flat box, his eyes cast about nervously. 

Excitement builds in Vince’s chest. Two-way excitement, the excitement of receiving and the excitement of giving. He turns toward the tree, picks up the smaller of the two parcels underneath, a flat garment box. “Here you go,” he says, handing it over to Howard.

Howard hands him his box. Vince gives it a little shake. Something rattles inside.

He lets Howard open his gift first. He pulls back the Christmas wrap, and pulls the top off the box. He holds up the elasticized, black straps that end in little hooks. “What the hell are these?” Howard asks.

Vince smiles at him, “Sock garters.”

“Oh...” Howard says with zero enthusiasm, “they’re... great.” 

“They help hold up your socks,” Vince informs him, as though Howard isn’t properly understanding their purpose (he will later) (it’s two-fold) (fold one is this) (the confusion, the bewilderment, the disappointment) (fold two is something entirely different).

“Perfect,” Howard says. “Yeah, that’s a big problem. Socks slipping off... so, thanks,” he says. He puts them back into the box they came out of, puts the lid back on it and banishes it to the other end of the sofa. He gestures at Vince’s box, “You going to open your present?”

“Yeah,” Vince says. He carefully pries the paper loose along the lines where it’s been taped and unwraps the present. He takes the lid off the little box (it’s going to be jewelry, of all things) and takes the scratchy cotton out of it. Underneath is a pendant on a long silver chain. It’s a crescent moon with a star that dangles off the top, the moon is fashioned out of smooth, gleaming silver, the star is gold and winks with a single white diamond that catches the light. It’s beautiful and sparkly, and better than what Vince was expecting.

“It’s genius,” Vince enthuses. He holds his hair back off his neck, “Here, help me put it on.”

Howard does. Vince fishes out a pocket mirror and examines his reflection. The moon and star rest against his t-shirt, the green behind them dark and minty. The pendant looks well cool, already he starts planning outfits around it, it’s going to look genius with the jumpsuit he’s been working on. He catches his face in the mirror, ruffles up his hair a little, starts making faces at himself.

“And that’s all it takes,” Howard says with amusement. “It’s like watching a cat with a mylar ribbon. You’re just endlessly fascinated, aren’t you?”

“Course,” Vince says. He smiles at himself before he turns his eyes to Howard, he puts the mirror away. “I love it,” he says, touching the pendant, “Thanks.”

“Good,” Howard says. He looks rather pleased with himself (he’s won the gift exchange) (for now). He still hasn’t put two and two together. 

Vince tilts his head to the side, “Do you like your garters, Howard?” he teases.

“Oh, sure, yeah, they’re… top notch,” he says, the pretense of pleasure easy enough to see through that Vince feels it’s appropriate to move to stage two of his plan.

He sighs, “Sorry. I thought you’d really like them.” (it’s alright if he doesn’t, he’ll come round on them later, during fold two, but until then…)

“I... do. They’re very… thoughtful.”

Vince hums as though he’s disappointed (fucked that one, haven’t I?). He looks over at the final present under the tree. Howard seems to notice it too.

“That one for Leroy?” he asks.

“I suppose it must be,” Vince says.

“What do you mean you suppose?”

Vince shrugs, “I don’t remember what it is.”

Howard rolls his eyes, “You didn’t write it down, or keep a list, or something?”

 _Of course not_ , Vince says with his eyes, “I bought it a while ago, wrapped it up when it came in. I’ve had it at the bottom of my cupboard for a few months and I know it was for _someone_.”

Howard looks at him with incredulous annoyance, “You don’t know what that is?”

“Forgot,” Vince says with a shrug.

Howard looks at the box again, leans forward, “It’s got a tag on,” ( _idiot_ ).

“Has it?” Vince asks. “Well, maybe...” he slides the box out. “Oh, I’ve written on it,” ( _silly me_ ) he peers down at his own handwriting, like he doesn’t already know what it says. When he looks up, it’s obvious that Howard is no longer falling for his sham.

He looks down at Vince with a mix of irritation and fondness, “You little tit.” 

Vince slides the box to Howard. “Go on.”

Howard rips at the paper, the ribbons that Vince wound around it foil his efforts and he has to go into the kitchen to get a knife so that he can get past all of them. He uses the knife, too, on the packing tape Vince mummified the cardboard box with, the whole exercise really more of a demolition than a proper opening of a gift. As soon as he finally gets the lid open, packing peanuts explode out of the box and hit him in the face in a spray. He spits one onto the floor and reaches into them.

Vince knows the exact moment his fingers meet the smooth glass that’s inside the box. “What the hell?” Howard asks. He tips the box up, slides its contents forward (more packing peanuts slide over the floor in an avalanche). 

Vince waits to see Howard’s expression change. It goes from irritated (why the fuck did you wrap this up like nuclear waste?) to puzzled (can’t be…) to gobsmacked (it is).

“My god,” Howard says, awed. “My… holy… you… you never did. You… how?”

“It was just a few weeks on the Celebradar. Didn’t take that long.” Vince might be minimizing a bit. For a dusty old instrument that you can’t even play, it was well expensive and he’d had to keep an eye on the auction until five in the morning to make sure he actually won it, and then he had to have it delivered to Leroy’s, and he’d had to smuggle it in when Howard was out one night, and then the scent of jazz was so strong in his room that he’d needed to take Benadryl every night for a month just so he could sleep in there without breaking out. 

Howard looks at him (and it’s all worth it, just for the face he’s making now), “You little _bitch_ , you utter… I can’t believe…”

“It is the one you wanted, right?” Vince asks.

Howard is smiling like a complete moron (like nothing makes sense) (but it’s all delightful) ( _it’s a marshmallow world made for sweethearts_ ), “John Coltrane _touched_ this saxophone,” he says, like he might start hyperventilating at any second. “He… he played it. I…”

“You like it?”

It’s perfectly obvious that Howard _loves_ it.

“I can’t believe you kept this secret…”

“Told you I can keep secrets from you,” Vince says with a grin. 

Howard reaches for him and pulls him onto his knees. He gives Vince a kiss. He looks back at the glass case in front of him and shakes his head, evidently overcome.

“Bet you don’t think Christmas is so bad now, do you?” Vince asks.

This statement calls Howard out of his blissful reverie. “Well, this one’s been… a bit of a wash, I suppose,” he says.

“A wash?” Vince asks. The kettle starts going and Vince gets up to tend to it, “I’ve just given you the best present of your life,” he says with a nod at the saxophone. He laughs, “Last night you had the best sex of your life,” which isn’t being hyperbolic, he’s pretty sure it’s a fact. “How much better can it get?”

He takes the kettle off the stove and fixes two cups of tea. Howard hasn’t got a word to say. Vince looks over at him and Howard is shaking his head, like he’s rattling around all the negative thoughts he’s got in there, churning them into a proper dust storm before he can spit them out.

“Have you forgotten that twenty-four hours ago we were fighting for our lives?” Howard asks.

“Yeah, we _were_ ,” Vince says, handing Howard his tea and sitting next to him on the sofa, “and we survived. So, that’s good too, isn’t it?”

Howard’s face goes so disturbed, he might have walked in on the Wombles having an orgy. “You were almost crushed, the flat was almost blown up. We, either of us, could have been killed at any moment. If Naboo didn’t come back when he did, that _woman_ might have turned us to bechamel with a snap of her fingers.”

“But _none of that happened_ ,” Vince says. “I’m not saying it was a picnic, but, overall, you have to admit, it’s turned out just fine.”

“I don’t have to admit anything.”

Vince rolls his eyes, “Whatever. I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you’re determined to be unhappy, just because it’s Christmas.”

“Well, maybe I don’t like being told that I should be happy when I’m not.”

“Yeah, but, this year, you really should be. Fuck, look at us, Howard. We’re… in love, we’re having a proper Christmas morning, I’ve made you tea, what’s stopping you from just having a nice time?”

“Let sleeping dogs lie, Vince.”

“No! Honestly, I want to know what your problem is, because, right now, you seem completely mental.”

“I seem mental?”

“Yes.”

Howard looks over his left shoulder, away from Vince. “You don’t understand,” he says.

“You’re right, I don’t understand,” Vince says irritably. Howard’s eyes slide warily toward him. Vince sighs, runs his hands through his hair. 

There is a lumpy object sitting under sheeting in the space between them. It’s lit from overhead, something that is on display, and yet unrevealed.

“You’ve never told me,” Vince says more calmly. “I want to understand. Tell me. Please.”

Howard chews at his lip, he looks down at the sheeting.

Vince can hardly believe it when Howard’s fingers close on the corner. “Alright,” he says

Vince feels like he’s waiting for story time, like they’re kids around a campfire, and Howard is going to give him a fright. Vince has no idea what Howard is about to tell him. He has a lot of ideas, though. 

Howard takes a moment to start. When he does, he’s looking past Vince, like he’s seeing his memory through the window, like he’s watching it rather than telling it. When he speaks, it’s faraway, dreamlike, and Vince sees it too.

Howard is small. Maybe six, or seven, perhaps as old as eight, but younger than he was when they first met. He’s a gangly boy, awkward and coltish, but he’s different. 

Much different, actually.

Vince expects to see him swathed in neutrals, something depressing and boring, something like what he’s always worn (corduroy, tweed, cast offs from defunct surf shops), but he’s not. He’s got on green trousers and a jumper... a proper Christmas jumper. The reindeer on it has antlers that are tangled in glittery fairy lights. It’s genius. Beyond genius.

And, biggest difference of all, Howard is _smiling_. He’s happy.

He stands next to a white-haired old woman, the sound of some grand choral music is under the whole scene. She’s got a kindly face that isn’t completely unlike Howard’s when he looks particularly pleased about something. She’s dressed in red from head to toe, down to the boots Vince can see peeking out from under her long skirt, an apron is tied around her waist, covered in a pattern of holly berries. Little Howard looks up innocently at her, “When’s the cake going to be ready, Nana?”

Vince can smell it now, the dark, spicy, rich scent of ginger, the heady almost alcoholic scent of black treacle just underneath. It smells like Christmas, like home, like family; scents that Vince has only the barest familiarity with, and yet craves intrinsically. It smells fucking delicious.

Howard’s Nan smiles down at him, “Only a few more minutes in the oven, but it’s going to need to cool down, and we’ll need to wait for your dad before we dig in, of course.”

“Course,” Howard says, loyally. 

Howard’s Nan reaches down and ruffles his curly head. “Here, now, come help me set the table, dear.”

Howard follows his Nan out of the kitchen, through a hallway (Vince can hear the voices of Howard’s aunts and uncles from another room) (he feels little Howard’s subconscious cringe) (he’s the only child in the house) (the adults in the other room do not understand him) (they don’t even try), and into the dining room.

Vince sees a familiar sight. Howard’s record player is sitting off to the side; it’s what’s playing the music. Howard walks over to it and looks down at the record. The word _Messiah_ is visible, rotating around and around.

“Like it?” Howard’s Nan asks.

He shrugs, “It’s alright, yeah.”

She smiles, “Alright? This is one of the foundational English oratorios. Now, I will agree with Handel that it’s no Theodora, but the Hallelujah chorus is famous world over. You’ve heard it, I’m sure. Your Johnny Mathis does a version of it—”

“Nan! I don’t like Johnny Mathis. He’s not jazz. He’s a pop artist!”

“It all sounds the same to me, love,” she says. “Anyway, Handel is one of the greatest composers in history. Listen, to this bit. See, they used to perform this piece with thousands of singers sometimes, but this recording, they’ve brought it back, much simpler, here, truer to the original intent.”

Howard listens. Two women are harmonizing about feet. It’s well weird, and not at all something Vince likes, nor does Howard, but Howard’s Nan is trancing out. She’s in a classical music trance, her hand flowing through the air like she’s conducting. Howard smiles at her as the chorus comes in and her conducting intensifies.

It is so very like Howard, that Vince finds himself overwhelmingly fond of her.

“Turn that down, Emily!” calls a gruff voice from the other room (Howard’s grandfather).

She snaps out of it and waves a dismissive hand his way. She does, however, turn the knob down just a hair. She sighs, “Help me with the table setting, love.”

Howard does as she asks.

The scene fades and reappears. It’s darker now. Howard is in a dim hallway, standing before a dark door. There are fairy lights lining the hall he’s standing in, they reflect crazily across the gleaming wood in front of him. He raises a tentative hand and knocks quietly, “Mum?” he asks.

There is a mumbled reply. Howard opens the door on a bedroom. A woman is lying on the bed. Howard’s mum. She’s got a flannel over her eyes. “Mum,” Howard whispers (he’s unsure if she’s asleep). His mother stirs and sits up. She takes off the flannel. Her eyes are pained. Howard hands her a glass of water and some pills.

“Thanks,” she says. She rubs at her temples, “How’re you bearing up?”

“Alright.”

His mum swallows the pills, “Your dad here yet?”

Howard shakes his head.

Her face sours in an expression that Vince has seen on Howard’s more than once, _berk_ , she’s thinking. She’s not saying it though. She sighs a ten-thousand-year sigh. She hands Howard back the empty glass. “Thanks, dear.”

She looks down at his jumper and shakes her head, “My little elf. How’s your Nan treating you?”

Howard lights up, but he’s obviously had training in headache protocol. He says quietly, “We’re having fun. We made cakes, and we set up the dining room table, and she let me change out the record on the Victrola.”

“She did?” his mum asks, “Well, that must make you special. Your Nan doesn’t let anyone near that record player, not even your Grandfather.”

“Of course not. He doesn’t understand about music,” Howard says. He looks quietly distressed as he says, “Grandad doesn’t _like_ it. Not even jazz.”

Howard’s mum just hums. “Well, at least you’ve got Nan. I don’t think there are very many musical Moons.” She winces, “Keep being good. Come get me when your father gets here.”

“You don’t want any dinner?” Howard asks.

She shakes her head, “No, not in the least. Tell Nan I’m sorry, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Good boy,” she says. She lays back down, puts the flannel back across her eyes. Howard shuffles out of the room.

Vince gets the same sense of time passing. A lot of time. It’s very late at night. Howard is staring at the ginger cake when next Vince sees him. It’s sitting on the sideboard in the dining room with holly arranged around its base, a glaze poured over it. Howard poured the glaze _hours_ earlier, Vince knows.

His uncle Terry is holding forth, “I told Anders, you know, don’t count on dividends like that every quarter. Well, he wouldn’t listen, of course. Wanted to sink more into the fund, against my advice completely, and I couldn’t persuade him against it, well, here we are now, and he’s wishing he’d listened to me. I said to him, I said, ‘Anders, what’s the point of having me on if you won’t listen to me?’ and he had to admit I was right, yes, indeed.”

There is a general mumble of consensus around the table before Uncle Terry continues detailing what seems like an endless resume of professional successes.

Howard sighs. He’s bored beyond tears at this point. There has been talk of sport, talk of politics, talk of tax reforms, and now talk of work. 

Howard’s dad is nowhere to be seen.

Vince feels a wretched, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He really should have been there by now. He’d only stayed home to get some extra grading done before he was supposed to leave. What could possibly be taking him so long? Vince wonders these things along with little Howard.

Howard isn’t worried about him _yet_ , he just wants him to get here so that they can finally have cake, and Howard can go to bed and escape his uncles and aunts. 

His Nan catches his desolate look and gives him a little eyeroll. Howard smiles back at her. She leans over to him, “Go and check on your mother, lovie,” she says, and Howard knows, like Vince does, that he doesn’t actually have to. His Nan is just giving him a way to get out of the dining room, to escape from the tedium, “I’ll come get you when your dad gets here.”

Howard takes her up on it. He goes upstairs into his room.

The next thing Vince sees is Howard waking up. He’d fallen asleep, waiting. No one ever came to get him last night. His dad...

Little Howard hops up off the bed, he runs downstairs. His feet thump on the steps like an ominous drumroll. Howard slides into the kitchen.

His mother, his whole family, are crowded around the kitchen table. Silent.

His dad is amongst them.

But his Nan isn’t.

“I knew... that instant, I knew,” Howard says quietly. He stops speaking, he’s overwhelmed with emotion.

Vince takes Howard’s hand. Howard looks at him with eyes that are full and glassy. “It was silent in the kitchen. Like dead air on the radio. It was so wrong... I...”

“Oh, Howard,” Vince says. He wraps him into his arms.

Howard sniffs, “They’d forgotten me. They’d completely forgotten I even existed.”

“That’s terrible,” Vince says, softly.

Howard nods, “They didn’t even have anything to do with it,” Howard continues, which Vince feels is a little harsh, but he’s willing to let Howard vent his feelings however he likes, “I mean, to not even save me a piece after all that time I’d spent making it...”

Vince feels a moment of disconnect, (the plates all over the kitchen table, dark crumbs clinging to them, the scent of ginger dissipating slowly) he suffers a distinct feeling of _what the fuck?_ before he recalls the card they’d gotten a week earlier _from Nana Moon_ inviting Howard for Christmas lunch. Vince shoves Howard away from him. “You dick!”

“What?” Howard asks, apparently shocked at Vince’s sudden betrayal.

“You utter _ball-licker_! Is this about a fucking _cake_?”

“What’d you think it was about?”

“Your Nan, you jerkoff! I thought you’d lost your Nan!”

“Oh, no, she’s... why would you think that?”

“Because that would make _sense_. A cake? Jesus! I thought it was going to be your dad—”

“My dad is a—”

“A geography teacher in Leeds. I know. I remember that _now_ , but, fuck! I thought he’d got stuck in the chimney or something like that! I thought he’d been in a wreck! A fucking _cake_ , Howard?”

“Stuck in a chimney? That’s just an urban legend. Anyway, bit dark, that, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is dark, but, well, cut you open and you’re made of blackjacks and all, so. A fucking cake,” Vince says again, bewildered beyond belief.

“Well... That’s not the worst bit.”

“Oh, please do enlighten me.”

“I never get a piece of that cake.”

“Probably be a bit difficult to do since you don’t go up there, do you?”

“No, I don’t go up there!” Howard says, gesturing violently toward the whole, vast north of England. “Even if I did, they’d make sure of it, the berks. They thought it was funny, Vince! To leave me out of it… they… they’ve done it on purpose, every year since!” His eyes narrow down to bitter little coal shavings. “That’s why I don’t go to Christmas lunch, that’s why I stay right here, in the flat, in my room, spend the day on my own like none of it is happening.”

Vince’s lips flatten. “Unbelievable.”

“I knew that this is how you’d react. I knew it. That if I told you you’d not understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. You know what I think?” Vince asks, fighting a desire to take Howard’s face in his hands and force him to see sense. “I think you should just go up there and have a nice fucking visit with your Nan! Cake or no! Christ.”

Howard looks slightly ashamed. “It’s not just the cake,” he says.

“Well, what is it?”

“I just... I don’t want to go!”

Vince rolls his eyes, “Why? Are they really that bad?”

“Yes!” Howard says firmly. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

“No, I don’t know what it’s like,” Vince agrees.

It hits Howard a second later. 

Vince doesn’t go anywhere for Christmas either. 

In fact, every Christmas of his adult life has been spent with Howard, the two of them the only people in the whole of London who don’t seem to have _somewhere_ to go, but, unlike Howard, it isn’t of Vince’s own choice. 

It’s never been so bad. He’s never minded having Howard all to himself, for one, and it’s not like being sad about it would change it anyway, so Vince does his best _not_ to be; but, yeah, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that (sometimes) he wishes he could go to a nice, crowded house and have a real Christmas, with a real family, like the ones in the adverts.

Howard squints. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine...”

“No, I shouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t mean it like that. I know,” Vince says.

Howard nods. He fidgets a little. “It’s not just the cake,” he says, again. “I don’t go back because... They don’t care about me. Not really. I mean, that was the last Christmas before my aunts and uncles all started having kids of their own, and then, suddenly, it was always how well my cousins were doing, how Greg made head boy, how Kate was doing at Oxford, whatever. And now _they’ve_ all started having kids. They’re all married… and successful, and I’m… I’m just a fucking shopkeeper at a second hand. James is a fucking financial analyst,” Howard says with a gesture like a fizzing bottle rocket (la-de-fucking-da).

“They don’t even bother to ask if I’m seeing someone anymore. It’s just ‘look how many wrinkles Howard’s got, his face looks like a ballsack but he’s all alone, and poor, and getting fat!’, and then they all have a laugh and congratulate themselves on not being me, and eat all the cake and… they’re so fucking smug, Vince.”

“I’m sorry,” Vince says. “They sound like a bunch of pricks.”

“They are,” Howard says, firmly.

“But you’re not just a shopkeeper, you’re a jazz poet and…” Vince doesn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s just…” he reaches for Howard’s hand. Holds it.

Howard blinks. He understands what Vince is trying (and completely unable) to say. “I’ve got you,” he says, overawed. It’s like he’s opened the saxophone again, like he can’t believe it, like he’s amazed.

“Yeah,” Vince says. The volume knob on his voice isn’t working properly. He barely hears himself say it.

“But…”

“Howard,” Vince says, _you don’t have to..._ His free hand has worked itself into his hair of its own volition. He tugs it out and finds himself chewing on the side of his thumb.

“No, I know. It’d be a lot and I—”

Vince startles, “Do you _want—_?”

“No! Not, you know, unless you—”

“I’d go,” Vince mumbles. He clears his throat. “If you wanted me to, I’d... I’d go.”

Howard blinks a half-dozen times. “You would? If I went, you’d come too?”

Vince shrugs, “Yeah... sure. Why not?”

Howard looks like he doesn’t know what to say, “Really?”

Vince laughs, “Yes.”

“Then… do you want to? If we left soon, we could be up there, no problem. And beat the traffic, and, I wager, no one will have had at the cake yet, either, so… Why do you look so pleased?” Howard asks.

Vince realizes that he is, in fact, smiling. “You just invited me to meet your family.”

“You’ve met my parents already,” Howard says. “The rest of them… like I said, they’re terrible. I mean it. They’re hellishly dull.”

“Well, so are you, so I’m pretty used to it,” Vince teases. 

“Keep it up, little man, and you’ll get my moves put on you,” Howard threatens.

“Don’t know if we have time for that right now,” Vince says with a smirk. His excitement starts turning in on itself. Yeah, he’s pleased, but he’s got to make sure that he gets it right, too, doesn’t he? The closest he’s ever had to a Nan was an arthritic old lioness back in the jungle who used to snipe at him if he didn’t bring her any meat when he stopped in to visit. He’s got no idea how proper old ladies work, but presents are always good, particularly when its Christmas. “Do you think she’d like a jumper?”

“Who?”

“Your Nan, obviously. I’ve got a lot of good ones down in the shop and, I mean, I don’t suppose you know what size she takes?”

“No,” Howard says (why would he?)

“I’ll have a guess, then,” Vince says. He drains the remainder of his tea and gets up. “Maybe the snowflakes? Does she like silver? Looked like she wore a lot of red, do you think she’d like penguins better?” Vince looks down at Howard. “Or, I could get one of the snow globes, maybe, if you think she’d rather?” Vince halts, an entirely new train of thought begins barreling through his brain, “Christ, what do you think I should wear?”

“Anything you want,” Howard says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters, Howard! I want her to like me.”

Howard stands up, he grips Vince’s upper arms, “She will like you. Because I like you. So, stop fretting, alright?” he shakes his head, “Put you in front of a hoard of monsters with nothing but a bassoon and you’re fine, propose introducing you to one little old lady and you fall apart. You know you’re mental, right?”

“It’s just, this is important, alright?” he looks just past Howard’s ear, “Shit,” he says, tracing the love bite, “shit. I should… I’ve got concealer, if you want.”

“What for?”

“The… Oh, fuck, I don’t want them to think—”

“They’ll think what they want. Just, calm down, alright?” He brushes Vince’s hair away from his jaw, “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is I want to do this properly.”

Howard’s eyes look down into Vince’s. They’re warm with amusement (with love) with everything Vince has ever wanted to see in them (and thought he never would). “You are. You will. Now, stop being a git and go get dressed. I know it’s going to take you half the day and we’ve got time considerations to manage.”

Vince can’t move for the life of him. He can’t help wondering if Howard is right. Is his Nan really going to like him? Howard’s parents never really seemed to get him, or why Howard insisted on keeping him as his best mate. They’re definitely not going to understand this, Vince realizes. 

Howard kisses Vince on the forehead, “Stop worrying; it’ll give you wrinkles.”

That snaps him out of it, “At least then I’d look age appropriate next to you.”

“That’s better,” Howard says. “Get a wriggle on. Show me the best six outfits you’ve got so we can start getting out of here.”

Vince nods. He goes into his room and searches for the perfect outfit for being someone’s proper boyfriend.

There is a small house in the north of England, where two Christmas enthusiasts meet for the first time, where something that was ill-defined becomes something firmly shaped, where ugly jumpers are exchanged, and where the scent of ginger cake is, finally, accompanied by the taste of it, and, for the first time in a long time, a happy Christmas is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final notes on this fic!
> 
> First, if you’ve read through this far, thanks for sticking it out with me! I appreciate it.
> 
> Second, if you’re wondering what the fuck is wrong with me, so am I. This fic ate up a good three months of my writing time, and I loved every minute of it. I hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> Gremlins was originally released in June of 1984, well before I was even born. I have a memory of watching it for the first time when I was about five or six and probably way too young for even the mild horror and violence in the film. 
> 
> In researching this fic (I like how I said "researching" like I actually did work beyond running around my kitchen, swinging a broom about and trying to decide how I'd most want to kill animals the size of spider monkeys if they were attacking me), I found out that the first draft that Chris Columbus did of the film was a lot darker than the final script ended up being. The mother originally dies, the dog is killed, Gizmo turns into a gremlin, and I assume all of the people that we later find out (via newsreel update at the end of the film) haven’t actually died, would have in the original version.
> 
> There was a huge debate between Spielberg, who produced the film, and the director about keeping the whole dead dad in a chimney bit that made it into the final cut. Spielberg felt it was too weird, that people weren’t going to know how to feel about that reveal.
> 
> I’m happy they kept it in, but he was definitely right. I’ve observed that there are two types of people when you get to that reveal; people who are horrified by it, and people who cackle like fairy-tale witches who’ve just successfully pushed plump children into a boiling cauldron.
> 
> I’ll give you one guess as to which camp I fall into.
> 
> Lastly, I make a lot of explicit references to various songs throughout, but a shout out to some of my less explicit references, Pilot’s Magic, Frank Zappa’s Muffin Man, John Coltrane’s Alabama, Nina Simone’s Sinnerman, Velvet Underground’s Femme Fatale, Lester Young’s Back to the Land, and, even though it’s pretty explicitly referenced, thanks to Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk, without which I think we'd all be a little lost.
> 
> Thanks, once again, for reading! Happy Holidays!


End file.
